


A Beauty By Any Other Name

by nire



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Audiobook Reader and Singer-Songwriter Brienne Tarth, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Artist Jaime Lannister, Mutual Pining, Not Cersei Lannister Friendly, Online Friendship, Online Pining, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Secret Identity, Sort Of, and they don't know each others' irl identities, it's basically a dramatic way of saying they have online handles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2020-07-27 07:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20042086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nire/pseuds/nire
Summary: Jaime Lannister: security director of Casterly Management by day, graphic artist by night.Brienne Tarth: music teacher by day, audiobook reader and singer-songwriter by night.Their paths cross online, and slowly, delicately, they build a friendship over mutual appreciation of each others' works and perhaps too much respect for privacy.





	1. Jaime I

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO THERE AND WELCOME TO MY BEAST OF A PROJECT. If mood boards are your thing, [here's one I made for this fic](https://66.media.tumblr.com/05ffec31b987cbc13e540e65f98fed6e/c34628a7ad8aa975-7d/s1280x1920/a3e0c147516a149279c273de3f5f5c7217f74870.jpg).
> 
> My thanks to Luthien (and two of her cats, Sasha and Abby the Beast) for beta reading and being the most patient senpai ever, and sameboots/Keith for egging me on in this journey of self-torture.
> 
> Do enjoy.

Jaime is just about to go home when someone knocks on his open door. He starts, looking up at the visitor: Elia Martell, a hesitant smile on her lips. She looks well, or as well as one can with a fading black eye. Her oversized shades hang from her collar, to be used when outside lest the press has a field day with her bruise. Jaime wishes she would keep it on. His stomach still turns with guilt when he sees her.

“Just saying hi,” Elia says, “and to tell you that the new bodyguard is great. A bit much, but great.”

Jaime snorts. He’s assigned Bronn to Elia, and ‘a bit much’ doesn’t even begin to describe him. Jaime trusts Bronn, though, and the last stalker incident means Elia deserves the best Casterly Management can afford. They are, supposedly at least, the best talent management company on this side of the country, and it doesn’t reflect well on them to have lousy protection over their charges, especially an established star such as Elia. While Bronn _ is _ a dick, he is also good, and he takes his job seriously if it means a hefty bonus depends on it.

And maybe, Jaime thinks, after all the shit Elia’s been through, she deserves some wise-cracking bodyguard to keep her entertained. She seems to like Tyrion enough, and Bronn gets along with him like a house on fire.

“Jaime?” Elia asks. “Are you okay?”

Jaime starts again. He’s running on caffeine, right now, and not much else. He smiles thinly. “Sorry. Just a little tired.” He taps the side of his face. “That’s healing well.”

Elia raises her hand to touch the edge of the bruise, pressing gingerly as if to check if it’s still there. “Some concealer and I, too, can go to the Azor Ahai premiere,” she says, grinning.

“You’re going?” Jaime asks, surprised.

Elia scoffs. “No. I think I’ll stream the original instead at home.” With a stage whisper and a scandalous smile, she says, “I like the cast better.”

Jaime chuckles. “Between you and me, I agree.” _ Azor Ahai Reborn: The Prince That Was Promised, _a reboot of the old Azor Ahai action flick, stars Rhaegar Targaryen as the titular hero and Cersei Lannister as his love interest. The hype is up, and the internet is rife with debate over whether they could ever forgive Rhaegar’s affair years ago with then-newcomer rapper Lyanna Stark—which ended his marriage with Elia—and his new marriage with Cersei. It’s all terribly exhausting, Jaime thinks, but it makes bank.

Elia smiles, a twinkle in her eyes. “Your secret is safe with me. I have to go. I’ve got a recording to do tomorrow and Ellaria will kill me if I don’t get enough rest tonight. She says my range is down when I’m sleep-deprived.”

Jaime says good night and smiles, and when Elia disappears from his doorway, he slumps down on his chair and runs a hand over his face. Gods, but he wishes he could do more. He fired Elia’s old bodyguard, Gregor Clegane. According to Tyrion, now the man will never get a gig as a bouncer in King’s Landing, much less a job as a personal bodyguard. Neither brother is under any illusion that Clegane simply lost Elia in the festival crowd when the stalker got to her.

Both Jaime and Tyrion know who’s behind that, too, since Clegane answers to one person and one person only, though Cersei, naturally, denied everything, and Father absolutely refuses to press charges or even do any sort of investigation. The stalker is in jail for assault, Clegane has been fired, and for all Tywin Lannister cares, the matter is resolved.

Elia herself has been trying to get out of her contract with Casterly, but she signed it when she was still very young, unaware of the many exceedingly binding commitments in it. Her manager, Ellaria, only stayed at Casterly to protect her charge—nothing more. Had Ellaria left, worse things might have happened to her than a black eye from an angry stalker.

Jaime allows himself another sigh before he gathers his things and leaves.

He is infinitely glad that they placed his office near the security staff lounge, which is in return close to the parking lot. It saves him having to tiptoe his way through the building just to get out of there and go home.

Of course, none of that matters when his brother is small enough to hide behind his sedan, like tonight, because Tyrion just stumbles out from behind Jaime’s car, clutching a flask of gods-know-what liquor. “There you are,” Tyrion announces, his slurred voice ringing out in the empty parking lot. “I’ve been sitting on your trunk for almost thirty minutes.”

“Get a cab,” Jaime says.

“Oh, come on, do your little brother a favour.”

“I am _ not _driving you to the premiere, Tyrion.”

Tyrion laughs. The sound is bitter. “I’m not going to the premiere, haven’t you heard? Our dear sister has forbidden me from attending. No doubt she thinks I would be an eyesore on her grand night. So.” Tyrion moves to take a swig, his face scrunching up as no more drink spills from the flask. “_So, _do me a favour and drive me home.”

“It’s on the opposite side of the city,” Jaime protests, but he unlocks the car anyway and doesn’t say anything when Tyrion helps himself into the passenger side seat.

Tyrion scoffs. “Which means you have a longer drive to listen to your books, which means I’m the one doing you a favour, here.”

“Well, in that case,” Jaime says, pressing play on the audiobook he’s started listening yesterday. “Do me another favour and let me listen to this in peace.”

Tyrion stays silent for a grand total of one minute before asking, “_War of the Five Kingdoms_?”

“Yes,” Jaime says, exasperated, “will you let me listen to it, now?”

Tyrion inclines his head and waves his empty flask. Then, “What are you doing listening to a woman reader for this? Granted, she does a good job at it, but this epic is traditionally read by a man.”

Jaime pauses the audiobook. “You would rather I listen to Rhaegar Targaryen’s narration?”

“He would love that. The man likes nothing more than having people listen to his voice.” Tyrion turns to Jaime, his eyes wide and baleful. It’s the inebriation, Jaime knows, but it still makes Tyrion look like a wet puppy. “Why aren’t _ you _at the premiere?” Tyrion asks.

“You know why,” Jaime says. “We can’t have a murderer stealing the spotlight from the true stars of the night.”

Tyrion snorts. “Manslaughter, and at least forty women consider what you did community service. Besides, that was years ago. The public never reviled you much for what you did. You know this. So do Father and Cersei.”

His father and sister did try to convince Jaime to go to the premiere, citing the exact same reasons Tyrion has just mentioned, with a healthy spoonful of guilt trips and reminders of the responsibility of a first son from Tywin and a dash of seduction from Cersei. Jaime grips the steering wheel tighter. “Are you really trying to convince me to go?”

“No,” Tyrion says in that tone of his that implies he’s not the drunk one in this conversation, even though he really is, “I’m trying to figure out why you insisted on not going, even though you know it would get Father off your case for a little while and make our darling sister happy, as well as annoy our infinitely good-looking brother-in-law whose dear old dad you shoved down a flight of stairs. It’s a win-win situation for everyone.”

“You forgot the part where I would have to rub elbows with industry people _ and _the press.”

“Oh, please. You’ve been trained to do that since before you knew how to do long division.”

“You also forgot that it would give people the idea that I want to be part of the industry again,” Jaime says mildly.

“Tell me, why are you still here, if you don’t want to be part of the industry? I know you have enough money saved somewhere. You can leave. Sail to Pentos and manage an orchard. Stay here and open a nightclub. Anything, really. So long as you’re in the company, even if you’re only running security from a basement office, Father would always think you’d come around and be his true heir after all.”

Jaime tries not to flinch at his younger brother’s words. Tyrion has always been the better businessman between the two of them, and yet it doesn’t seem to ever matter to their father. Tywin visits the doctor a lot lately, which is unlike him, and every time he returns to the company building after such visits he will stop by Jaime’s office to give a long-winded lecture on ‘familial duties’ or ‘the importance of growing up’ or some sort of thinly-veiled demand for Jaime to be more involved in the business. Tyrion’s comment may be well-meaning, but Jaime knows his brother well enough to hear resentment in his tone. “I’m hoping he keels over and you take his place, then I can play security forever.”

“You can’t really want that.”

Jaime shrugs, then presses play on the audiobook and turns up the volume, shutting down further uncomfortable questions from Tyrion.

For his part, Tyrion seems to enjoy the audiobook too, and for good reason. His earlier objection to a woman reader aside, he seems to appreciate her skill. Her voice is low and husky, and her reading is somehow both melodious and without pretence, unless she’s doing so intentionally to voice a character or other. When that happens, it’s almost seamless. Her low register also means she can affect a good male voice, when required.

When Jaime drops Tyrion off at his townhouse, the younger brother concedes, “She’s no Selmy, but she’s not bad, especially for an amateur. What’s her name again?”

“Rohanne Storm,” Jaime says. “I’ve listened to her other readings. She’s good. Better than some of the big names.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. “Is she?” Before Jaime can reply, Tyrion shuts the car door. “Good night, Jaime.”

Somehow, Jaime feels like Tyrion is making another unwelcome observation on his life. He tries not to think about it. Instead, he turns the volume up even further, letting Rohanne’s husky tones fill the car as he drives to his flat by the bay.

Jaime found Rohanne where he finds most of his audiobooks, a non-profit site called Weirwood Dreams where volunteer readers upload their rendition of any book that is not subject to a copyright lawsuit. These tend to be ancient texts or obscure titles that never merited an audiobook release from their publishers. They keep their heads down and never ask for more than the occasional donations to keep their servers running, and the publishing world pretends they don’t exist.

He’s been listening to Rohanne Storm for close to two weeks, now, a worrying prospect. If he remembers it right, he’s all out of her readings.

Once he gets home, Jaime transfers the audio to his phone, listening even all the way up in the lift and until he arrives at his floor. Even as he takes off his jacket and belt, and pops open the top buttons of his shirt, he listens to Rohanne speak of heroes long past, in an age long gone, fighting for love and duty and often, vengeance.

He pours himself two fingers of scotch and settles in the leather-lined office chair by his computer.

Then, he gets to work.

Not his daily job. Not the chore of balancing his family’s tempers against each other. This is _ his _work, and no one knows about it. Not even Tyrion, though that’s a secret that he could uncover at any time if he bothered to do some digging. Jaime doesn’t get paid, but somehow that only makes it more sacred for him.

He creates art.

Sometimes it’s 3D renderings of old castles, sometimes it’s a digital collage, sometimes it’s illustrations. They vary, and he’s better at some and worse at others, but nothing quite makes him as happy as listening to a good audiobook while his hand works on whatever project he chooses to busy himself with. Tonight, Jaime chooses to draw a scene from the epic he’s listening. A disgraced knight and a lady who wishes to be a knight, one wooden sword between the two of them, a bear against them.

He sketches up the composition, trying and scrapping several drafts and versions, until he settles on a dramatic one with the bear looming large over the two humans. He’ll draw them both afraid but determined, he decides, posing them to slightly face each other, as if they seek reassurance in each other. Rohanne narrates the tale in his ears and his hands work, sketching up shapes and lines, filling in the values in greyscale.

He spends a little too much time on choosing a colour palette and before he knows it, the book is finished.

Huffing, he wipes a hand over his face. 2:15 am, the clock at the corner of his screen spells out, as if judging him for his life choices.

He saves his progress and posts the lineart on his pseudonymous blog, tagging it _ WIP,_ then he turns off his computer.

It is now that his stomach reminds him that dinners are a thing and he has completely forgotten to eat anything solid since around noon today. He’s not proud of it, but it has happened before.

He opens his pantry cupboards, a barren place since he also completely forgot to shop for groceries since Tyrion stumbled out, drunk, from behind Jaime’s car.

There are some instant noodles left, at least, and he really couldn’t care less about nutrition right now. He just wants to avoid the acid reflux come morning if he doesn’t eat now.

He tosses the noodles and some water in the saucepan, and as he waits, he opens Rohanne Storm’s profile on Weirwood Dreams. His worst dreams have come true: he has listened to all her readings. Rookie mistake. He should’ve spread them out between other audiobooks. Truly, the last time he did this was when he first discovered audiobooks. He was nineteen and finally living away from his family, and his roommate at the dorm casually informed him he could just listen to books instead of having to read the text himself. Jaime had never hated Tywin so much as when he forced him to read thick business tomes when the audio version of them existed. It’s not like the old man wasn’t aware of Jaime’s dyslexia, but the way Tywin dealt with it was by making Jaime read and write as much as possible and maybe it would go away.

Of course it didn’t.

So, at the age of nineteen, Jaime Lannister decided to listen to books narrated by senior thespian Barristan Selmy, and he ran out pretty quickly, and he vowed never to listen to the same reader two books in a row.

Then, of course, Rohanne happened, and like a bewitched teenager he forgot his old vow. Now, he’s bereft of that voice, the gentle tones and slight Stormlands accent, the way her reading sounds ineffably intimate, as if somehow, he’s the only one listening.

He wonders what the person behind this mysterious voice that has hooked him is like. He knows she is from the Stormlands, from the accent and the uninspiring choice of surname, and that she favours classical text, and yet there’s a wide chasm between the feeling of knowing her voice intimately and actually knowing her as a whole person. He frowns at his phone. Her profile icon is a photo of a hand-lettered script spelling out _ Rohanne_, the ink vivid blue over cream paper, but that tells him nothing except for confirmation that it couldn’t be her real name after all. The profile is otherwise empty aside from her pronouns—she/her, this he knows—and a link to a blog.

He opens the blog, and this is his best decision he’s made by far.

Weirwood Dreams forbids readers from asking for payment or donation in exchange for audiobooks, because they have to protect their non-profit status, but the prohibition doesn’t extend to the readers’ personal sites. Rohanne, in fact, does have an online tip box open, and when he looks deeper, she has previously done donation drives so she can afford to rent a studio for a weekend, or a new microphone, or subscription to an increasingly expensive audio processing software.

Jaime drops fifty dragons into the tip box, without hesitation, signs his name as _ Goldenhand_, leaving no email address or anything else for her to find him. If she wants, she can look up the handle, but otherwise he is fine with her thinking that this is just a particularly generous listener, since that’s all he is.

The starchy smell of cooked noodles reminds him of his late dinner. He pours the slightly overcooked noodles and the soup into a bowl, rips open the small packets of seasonings, and inhales the whole thing within two minutes.

Stomach full, he goes back to Rohanne’s site. There is a category labelled ‘my music’. He clicks on it, which brings him to a streaming site where she has, indeed, uploaded twenty or so tracks.

He plays the first one on the page, supposedly the most popular track of hers with a little over 1,000 plays, and _ oh. _ Her singing is sublime. She doesn’t show off much range, but she knows her strengths, playing on the low, husky registers with impeccable vocal control, balancing it nicely with chords on the piano that he somehow knows she plays herself. It’s something rarely found in popular music these days, with many singers boasting great voices but little formal training. Rohanne sounds the opposite of untrained. She sounds _ classical_, even, as if she actually went to a specialist music school.

Stumbling into bed, Jaime sets her songs on loop and falls asleep to her rendition of _ Autumn of my Day_. He wakes up to the sun high in the sky and his phone out of juice.

He has never slept better.

  



	2. Brienne I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne goes above and beyond for her favourite student, meets someone from her old alma mater, and gets into an awkward e-mail exchange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE RETURNED.
> 
> Also known as: I gave up on Writer's Month. I may still write a bit for some of the prompts there (try to pry 'there's only one bed' from my cold, dead, hands, I dare you) but I am thoroughly exhausted with one-shots, and so I return to the comforting embrace of this fic. I'm so sorry you had to wait this long.
> 
> As always, thank you to Luthien for beta-ing this. Thanks also to sameboots and ImberReader for patiently dealing with my meltdown.

“So,” Brienne says, smoothing the edges of the sheet music before closing the folder, “how are you feeling?”

Shireen looks a little scared, but she affects a smile anyway. “I think I should be fine.”

Brienne smiles back. “Just do the best you can. You can’t control anyone else’s performance, but you can control yours. You’re good, Shireen. You’re ready.”

“I’m glad you’re going to be my accompanist, Ms Tarth. You know some competitions don’t allow you to bring your own.” Shireen looks down, her hair falling in a curtain obscuring her face.

Brienne reaches out, tucking Shireen’s hair behind her ear. The large burn scar on the side of her face is visible, now, but Brienne makes a point not to flinch or look away. A face is a face, as she has said to Shireen before. “When you go to those competitions, I will be sitting in the audience.” Brienne gets her bag and hands Shireen hers. “Well, then. It’s late, and you need to rest.”

Shireen hoists her backpack with a grunt—truly, what sort of textbooks do kids carry these days—and says, fondly but almost tiredly, “Yes, yes, my range is worse when I’m not well-rested.”

“Not just range, you know that. Control, too, and pitch, and—”

“I know. Please don’t fret. I have Uncle Davos for that.”

Brienne smiles, opening the music room door for Shireen and then closing it behind her after she shuts off the lights.

Shireen is one of Brienne’s students at Baelor High School, and a member of the choir club she supervises. The girl is a talented soprano with an affinity for opera, and Brienne has been devoting time and energy to support her. This extends to providing her with vocal coaching—though Brienne herself is an alto—and promising to be her accompanist in Shireen’s first competition.

Brienne knows what the other teachers think and what some of the students whisper, as much as they like her. Apparently, Shireen is Ms Tarth’s pet project. Apparently, Ms Tarth sees herself in little scarred homely Shireen. Apparently, Ms Tarth does this to compensate for her own non-starter of a music career.

Brienne would deny all these, but none of them were ever said to her face, and she couldn’t see any fault in their logic either. Maybe that is indeed why she’s doing all she can for Shireen, but so what? The girl is no less worthy by it.

She walks with Shireen to the school gates, where Shireen’s uncle Davos is waiting in his pickup truck that smells like onions. Brienne waves at the two, then turns in the other direction to make her own way home. She puts her last audiobook recording on, earpieces in and phone in hand, and on the train home she notes down timestamps which may require better cleaning or even re-recording. It’s half an hour until she gets off at Flea Bottom, an unflattering name for what has always been the less affluent part of the city, and another fifteen minutes as she walks the winding alleyways to the four-storey building where she has a flat.

She kicks off her shoes at the doorway, nudging them into some semblance of tidiness, before dropping her bag by her tiny desk in the corner. Dinner consists of a re-heated portion of stew she had cooked in batch at the start of the week—on the stove, because even when meal-prepping she refuses to be completely uncivilized and use the microwave—and sprinkling fresh chives on it liberally. She eats her dinner on her desk, raptly watching a stream of the new Azor Ahai movie premiere. Cersei Lannister looks radiant in her blood red dress. Brienne bets the woman has never eaten week-old stew in her life.

She lets the stream play in the background as she washes the dishes, and only when she’s properly ready to work does she shut it off. Tonight’s to-do list: clean and re-record audio for her newest audiobook and post an update on her blog. She truly hates the social aspect of her work, but she’s set up advertisements on her site and posting regular updates helps with traffic, and her rudimentary application of search engine optimization helps a little bit more. Every stag that trickles into her account goes towards the day she can finally rent another day at a studio and record more of her music.

She gets to work. 

First, the cleaning and re-recording for the audiobook, a reading of _ The Five Ghiscari Wars _ as translated by legendary author Brynden Rivers. It’s another epic traditionally read by male narrators, but those books tend to suit her speaking voice well. She opens her notebook and begins the tedious work of listening to a section over and over again on her rickety old laptop as she gradually improves the quality. Mostly, she just cleans noise, and occasionally she will have to remove the sound of a car passing by the street, if it is overly distracting. Sometimes, if the noises happen just as she takes a breath, or flips a page, she leaves those little sounds in the recording. Some listeners have noted that it adds an intimate quality, as if Rohanne is present with them and reading to them personally. She marks again the parts that simply cannot be cleaned and have to be re-recorded.

It's soon past midnight. The exhaustion is beginning to set in, but Brienne pushes through. Just as she plugs in her microphone and fiddles with the settings, her phone lights up to show a new notification. It’s from her tip jar. _ Weird, _she thinks. She doesn’t receive tips all that much. She has, previously, used the tip jar to crowdfund for when she needed a new microphone or things like that, but even that took time. Every now and then, someone will drop one or two stags and thank her for her audiobooks, but these occurrences are never a regular thing. It’s been more than a month since her tip jar had any action.

She unlocks her phone and opens the app. Her eyes, previously already drooping halfway, fly open.

_ Fifty _dragons?

Brienne has never even _ raised _ an amount of fifty dragons, much less received it all in one go. If only she didn’t allow her tippers to remain anonymous. This person left no email address or means for Brienne to contact them. Not even a note, a _ thanks for the audiobook _or_found you on weirwood dreams _. Just an unclickable pseudonym: Goldenhand.

A part of her wants to let this person retain their anonymity. After all, isn’t that why she allows them to donate anonymously? On the other hand, it’s _ fifty gold dragons_. For all she knows, Goldenhand hadn’t meant to tip that much. Maybe they’re a senior citizen with faulty eyesight and their adult son’s credit card.

Besides, if they truly did not want Brienne to know their name, they could have just left the identifier field empty and it would simply say Anonymous.

Mind set on a course, she looks up the pseudonym. There are many accounts named Goldenhand or its variations—numbers, underscores, and so on—but it doesn’t take long for her to find an art blog with that exact name in its URL, the newest post being a line art of the bear fight scene in _ War of the Five Kingdoms. _In fact, looking at the time stamp on the post, it was posted not twenty minutes ago.

Brienne scrolls down. Sure enough, she sees a few other artworks based on or inspired by books that she has read and uploaded on Weirwood Dreams. None of the captions really mention her, or audiobooks, or Weirwood Dreams, but it all seems a little too coincidental. Should she contact them? Thank them for the tip? That feels awkward.

She’ll think about it later, she decides. It’s already past two, and she hasn’t even started on the re-recording. It will have to wait. Her head is beginning to hurt already, and she has Shireen’s competition in the morning.

But she _ does _need to post the update, just to keep the traffic alive. Brienne grabs a cleaned clip that’s sufficiently dramatic—it includes a famous quote by the last harpy, a lament on wars and children that is now most commonly found on anti-war protest signs—and uploads it on Rohanne Storm’s blog. She tags the post with the appropriate keywords that will list her site on search engine results, then posts it. There. That’ll do.

She is about to close her browser when she notices Goldenhand’s blog still open on another tab. Their blog is posted on a different platform, and they have clearly paid extra to get a customized domain. On the right-hand corner of their blog, there’s a link saying _ subscribe_, which leads to a page where she can put her email address in for a newsletter.

She puts in her email: rohanne.storm@ravenmail.com.

It doesn’t mean anything. Their art is just good.

Before Brienne can second-guess her decision, she closes her laptop. Sleep. She needs sleep, lest she faceplants into the piano during Shireen’s performance.

* * *

Shireen wears a long-sleeved, knee-length black dress. It is very modest, probably chosen for her by her devout mother, but it becomes Shireen. The fit is properly done, the material looks and feels expensive, and if anything, the conservative cut probably helps Shireen feel more comfortable. She has her black hair curled into large, loose waves that fall around her head chin and help conceal her large ears. Her burn mark is visible—there is very little they can do to hide it, save making her wear a mask—but some make-up has reduced the angry red glare of it.

“You look very nice,” Brienne says.

“Thank you,” Shireen says, ever polite. “You look… neat,” she offers.

Brienne chuckles. “I’m not supposed to upstage the singer, remember?” She’s dressed in a plain button-up and dress pants, steamed and pressed to look crisp, as opposed to less structured tops and sweaters. While she usually puts no product in her hair, today she employs a generous dollop of gel to keep it neat and slicked back. Certainly, she looks more formal, but no more attractive. Shireen, polite but truthful, sees that clearly. Yet another reason why Brienne can’t help but play favourites.

“I wish you would,” Shireen says. “I didn’t know there would be this many people.”

“Just look at the judges and forget anyone else. You know Elia Martell, that musical actress?” Elia was classically trained, and early in her career was a mezzo soprano opera singer before she gained mainstream attention and moved on to more popular music. This competition, in an attempt to gain media coverage, has invited her as a celebrity judge.

Shireen’s eyes widen. “I can’t look at Elia Martell when I sing. What if she hates me?”

Brienne laughs. “Elia Martell has never hated anyone in her life. She still sings praises for her cheating ex-husband. There’s also not a single mean celebrity encounter story about her on the internet. Trust me, she’s your safest bet.” The other judges might hate Shireen for just looking at Elia, but then again at least one of the judges will give Shireen a low mark simply on how she looks.

Brienne should know. Years ago, she, too, was in a competition where Roelle the Crone was a judge. The ancient singer has made many a younger musician cry.

“You can look at the other judges’ chins, every now and again, but the rest of the time, just maintain eye contact with Elia, okay? It will be all right.”

“You know her?” Shireen asks.

“Not personally. She _ is _from Highgarden Conservatoire like me, but I think she’s six—no, eight—years older than me? She came once to give a talk, after her opera debut and before her mainstream break. She’s very nice.” Brienne doesn’t mention that Elia had spent time talking and giving advice to the students for more than an hour after the session, informally in the cafeteria, or that Brienne was also there, and Elia had reassured her that the world would give her a chance if she persisted. It has been many years. Elia has probably forgotten.

Shireen nods thoughtfully. The backstage waiting room is beginning to grow full as more participants arrive.

“Come on,” Brienne says. “Let’s do some warm-ups.” In her pocket, her phone vibrates in two short bursts: an e-mail. Nothing urgent. She takes the phone out, sets it on airplane mode, drops it into her bag, and shepherds Shireen to a warm-up room.

* * *

Shireen wins first place in the Classical High School division. It’s a close call between her and a young tenor with a thick northern accent. Mrs Baratheon whisks the girl and her trophy away, saying something about a photoshoot, and Shireen only has a glance to spare before they’re too far away and swallowed by the crowd. Brienne waves at Shireen and gives one last thumbs-up. She’s used to Mrs Baratheon being rude to anyone who doesn’t worship R’hllor.

“Quite a student you have there,” Brienne hears from behind her. She turns to see Elia Martell, clad in a deep terracotta dress that drapes over her lithe frame just so, making her look ageless. A lighter, shimmering pale gold scarf is draped about her shoulder, protecting her from the fierce air conditioning of the concert hall.

Brienne beams at the praise Shireen gets. If only the student herself were here. “Yes. Shireen is very talented.”

“And well-trained. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen young vocalists try to impress by straining so they can reach the high notes.” Elia smiles at Brienne, gently. “But not her. You’ve taught her well.”

“Thank you,” Brienne says, feeling her horrendous blush creep up her face as it is wont to do whenever someone compliments her. Besides, after her effort to not upstage Shireen, she did not expect anyone to give her more than a passing glance. “I’m sorry, do you know me?” she blurts out, as if someone like Elia Martell needs permission to talk to a high school music teacher like her.

“Ah! I’m so sorry.” Elia extends a hand. “I’m Elia. I was one of the judges.”

At this, a burst of laughter escapes Brienne, before she slaps a hand over her mouth. “I know who you are,” she says. This is not a thing Brienne thought would happen, but here she is, talking to Elia Martell, and very awkwardly at that. “I just didn’t know if…” She sighs and shakes Elia’s hand. “I’m Brienne Tarth. I don’t know if you remember me, but I studied in Highgarden and you gave a talk there some years ago.”

“Oh,” Elia sighs, one hand to her chest, “I remember you, of course.” There’s a short pause, there, as though Elia is about to add something else. Brienne wonders if it’s her size or looks that marks herself in Elia’s memory. Elia continues, “I wasn’t sure if _ you _remembered me.”

It _ would _ be an insincere sentiment coming from any other celebrity, but Elia says it without guile, as though they are nothing but two alumni of the same university. They _ are_, but there’s also the yawning gap between her sky-high career and fame and Brienne’s own non-existent music career, which has never been more evident. Brienne says, “I did. It was a very good talk.”

“I was so young, then. Little did I know that the popular music scene is so much more… well, more.”

Brienne made a non-committal hum. She would say something, but she knows little about either of Elia’s worlds. Opera has never been Brienne’s passion, and mainstream music is a world she can only gaze at from afar.

“How about you?” Elia asks, as though she can see what Brienne is thinking. “I remember you wanted to make music.”

Brienne’s face twists into a grimace. “Well, that… Teaching suits me better, I think.”

There’s a pitying sort of understanding in Elia’s smile when she says, “I see.” She continues, “Is being your students’ accompanist part of the job?”

Brienne chuckles. “Shireen’s a special case.”

Elia grins. “I thought so, too. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone that Ms Tarth plays favourites.”

Everyone knows about Brienne playing favourites, of course, but she merely says, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Elia,” calls another woman, a little older than Elia, attractive in a sensuous way, her hand touching Elia’s elbow. “The recording’s in an hour. We’ve got to go now. Excuse me, uh,” the woman trails off, looking at Brienne from head to toe, with something that’s somehow _ not _ revulsion.

Elia supplies, “Brienne Tarth. Brienne, this is my manager Ellaria.” She adds, “Brienne and I used to go to the same school,” as though they had attended the same class and sat together at lunch.

“Cool. You sing, too?” Ellaria asks.

Brienne has no doubt a cleverer person, someone with more social tact, would be able to twist this into an introduction that turns into a demo tape that turns into a debut. Maybe she’ll replay this interaction over and over again in the privacy of her studio flat, when all the lights are off. Now, though, she says through her sticky throat, “I’m the teacher of the student that won.”

“Congratulations,” Ellaria says, an inscrutable smile on her lips. “I’m sorry for cutting the reunion short, but I have to make sure Elia gets to her shoot on time.”

“What can I say? I’m nothing but her packhorse,” Elia says, smiling fondly. “It’s great to see you again, Brienne. Please extend my congratulations to Shireen and…” She trails off, rooting in her small purse until Ellaria gives her a card and a pen. Elia scribbles on the card and gives it to Brienne. “If Shireen needs anything, that’s Ellaria’s number, and this one,” she points at the handwritten one, “is my personal number.”

Ellaria says, “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you not to give that number to anyone.”

“No, of course not. I would—I would never.”

“Just doing my job,” Ellaria says. “Elia knows better than to hand out her personal number to just anyone, so I’ll trust you for now, but if you have any funny ideas just know that her new bodyguard,” she pauses, jerking her head to the direction of a man that seems utterly out of place in the hall, “isn’t the sort to lose her in a crowd like the last one.”

“Your last bodyguard lost you in a crowd?” Brienne asked, bewildered. Either the bodyguard was terrible at his job or they’re lying, and Elia Martell definitely is successful enough to afford a good bodyguard.

“If you ask me—” Ellaria begins, her face darkening, but Elia cuts in, “So sorry, Brienne, Ellaria’s right. Recording’s in an hour and the studio always hates it when you come in late, so bye!”

Brienne manages to get in a quick “Bye,” and then Elia practically frog-marches Ellaria away. The bodyguard peels himself off the pillar he’s been leaning on to follow them.

The crowd parts for Elia, a figure both envied and frowned upon in the classical music world. On one hand, her fame and wealth outstrip the lot of them by leagues. On the other, she’s _ sold out, _ she’s _ doing silly teen pop music_, she’s _ playing in rom-com b-movies, _ and all sorts of things people say as though Elia didn’t take the opera world by storm when she first debuted in a production of _ Florian and Jonquil_.

Brienne watches them, for a while, and then she realizes that her phone has been in flight mode for nearly the entire day. She opens it as she, herself, walks out of the hall. There are a few social media notifications that have nothing to do with her and mostly just telling her that the people she follows just posted a new status or something, and a work email from principal Goodwin on the annual first aid training for teachers, and oddly, an e-mail to Rohanne Storm.

> _ From: Golden Hand (goldenhand.arts@ravenmail.com) _
> 
> _ Subject: Hello. _
> 
> _ Hi Rohanne, _
> 
> _ I want to start by saying that I have been listening to your audiobooks on Weirwood Dreams. I was delighted to find that you have subscribed to my blog newsletter (if this is another Rohanne Storm, I am so sorry, thank you for subscribing to my issues). I’m sure you’ve noticed that many of my works lately have been inspired by many of the books you read. While I mentioned the books on my posts, I never said anything about listening to them as audiobooks, or the reader of those audiobooks. Would you mind it if I link your Weirwood Dreams profile on the description of my last digital painting? It’s the fully-rendered version of the bear fight scene from War of the Five Kingdoms, which I drew while listening to you. _
> 
> _ I look forward to your reply. _
> 
> _ Best regards, _
> 
> _ Goldenhand _

Brienne stares at the email. She’s stopped in her tracks to read it, and once more to make sure she’s not dreaming this up. She collects the facts in her mind. One: last night, someone called Goldenhand tipped her fifty dragons. Two: after some internet sleuthing, she decides that this Goldenhand _ might _be a digital artist who has been uploading paintings inspired by books she’s read, and she subscribed to their blog. Three: this digital artist just sent her an e-mail asking if they can link to her audiobooks in the description. Four: they did not say anything about the tip.

But it _ can’t _ be someone else with the same internet handle who just happens to listen to her audiobooks, right? It _ has _to be this person, except they didn’t mention the tip.

Brienne walks to her car, and as soon as she’s seated behind the wheel, she plays some music on shuffle and tries to take a stab at a reply.

> _ Dear Goldenh _

“Dear” seems so formal and yet too intimate. She has always hated that word. Goldenhand used “Hi”, so she’ll just follow his—their, it won’t do to assume them male by default—example.

> _ Hi Goldenhand, _
> 
> _ I am very flattered to hear that you want to mention me in your posts. Please do not feel obligated to do so, but it would please me _

She throws up a little in her mouth.

> _ Please do not feel obligated to do so, but if you do, I would be _

Happy? Thankful? Grateful? Chuffed?

> _ Please do not feel obligated to do so, but if you do, I would not at all object. In fact, it’s a good reminder of why I’m doing all this. In return, do you want me to link to your works on either Weirwood Dreams or my blog? My following is small to middling, but it’s the least I can do for _

Brienne pauses, considering if she should mention the money. Maybe not.

> _ My following is small to middling, but it’s the least I can do for everything you’ve done for me. _

Right. Not at all too much for an e-mail to someone who’s an acquaintance at best, but here’s hoping he gets it and he doesn’t make it weird.

> _ I _ _ will soon be uploading a reading of Brynden Rivers’ translation of The Five Ghiscari Wars. I hope you will enjoy listening to it as much as I enjoyed reading it. _
> 
> _ All my best, _
> 
> _ Rohanne Storm _

There. Done. She reads it through one last time, confirms that the only thing wrong with it is that it’s awkward, which to be fair, all e-mails are, and presses send. She places her phone in the cupholder and starts her car, and for the rest of the drive home she tries not to think of everything that’s happened today, including and especially Elia Martell and her business card.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot for the life of me figure out the spacing for the e-mail quotes, so you'll have to deal with it. Take comfort in the knowledge that this soon will pass because this isn't a You've Got Mail AU and these dumbasses will graduate to texting.
> 
> If you've ever come across an e-mail exchange that isn't awkward... Idunno, seems fake. Say hi to me and watch my meltdowns on [tumblr](https://nire-the-mithridatist.tumblr.com/).


	3. Jaime II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime fails a test. Or maybe he passes it. Depends who you ask, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things:
> 
> -I think it's a good time to clarify the state of the incest: some snogging happened when they were thirteen, but Tywin put an end to it. However, just because a relationship isn't incestuous, it doesn't mean it cannot be toxic/unhealthy/what-have-you.
> 
> -I don't have extensive knowledge of how showbiz works, so if something is inaccurate, I claim artistic licence.
> 
> My thanks to Luthien and slipsthrufingers for the beta and to ImberReader for the support and hand-holding during my crisis of faith (in myself).

Jaime arrives at his office around 1 pm to a very pissed Cersei. He has half a mind to ask if she’s been tracing his phone on GPS, as she’s far too busy to be waiting all morning for him.

“Morning,” he says, even though he is very aware of the time. The effect is as he desires: a vein twitches in Cersei’s jaw.

“Father couldn’t make it to the premiere, so no one was there from the company.”

What Cersei means is that there was no Lannister at the premiere. Addam was there, taking care of security in Jaime’s absence. Taena was there, too, since she’s technically Cersei’s manager. But neither of them counts, clearly, according to Cersei. Jaime rolls his eyes. He takes his time straightening the papers on his desk, ignoring the impatient taps of her platform heels on the marble floor.

“Are you just going to pretend I’m not here?” Cersei demands.

“I wasn’t aware you were expecting a response.”

“Where were you last night?”

“Home,” Jaime answers, realizing that his interest in getting this over with outweighs his interest in pissing off his sister. “I had to drive Tyrion first. He was so torn you barred him from the premises. Maybe make sure father doesn’t bail before you do that next time.”

Cersei uncrosses and re-crosses her legs. Her wrap dress falls open by the skirts, exposing her leg more than the slight sliver that was already visible. She makes it look casual, but Jaime knows it is anything but. “I wanted you there.”

“And I told you I wasn’t going.”

“Is this about Aerys? You know no one faults you for that.”

Everyone keeps jumping to that, and why shouldn’t they? It’s a convenient excuse that Jaime himself employs, far more believable than the suggestion that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t really want to work for the company and thus prefers not being in public as its representative. Jaime heaves a breath. “Not even your husband?” he shoots back.

“So it’s about Rhaegar,” Cersei says, pleased. “You shouldn’t be so jealous, Jaime. Nothing should change between us just because I’m married now.”

“I think the day-drinking has finally killed your last brain cell. You’ve been married before, remember?”

Her smirk is quickly replaced with a sneer. “That’s different.”

Jaime knows. He’d hoped bringing up her marriage to Robert Baratheon would annoy her enough to drive her away, but if anything, she’s becoming one with his couch. This is a problem. “What do you want, Cers?”

“I told Trant to take the day off,” she says. “And I have Hot Seat tonight, so—”

“I have better things to do than play bodyguard.”

“Not for work, according to Peck. Hot date?”

Unbidden, Jaime’s thoughts drift to Rohanne. After he charged his drained phone, he turned it on and found Rohanne Storm added to his subscriber list. Over lunch, he painstakingly drafted an e-mail to her. For once, nothing played in the background. Listening to her voice while he was writing to her felt almost profane, but anything else sounded wrong. He ran the e-mail through three different pieces of proofreading software before he sent it.

He hadn’t mentioned the tip he gave her in the e-mail. He spent the drive to the office wondering if it was good or bad that he didn’t make a mention of it, but the internal debate was halted by Cersei and her outrageous dress on his couch. She looks incredible. She always does. It’s become almost a meaningless thing, except when she tries to remind him, like now, as though he’s still thirteen and stupidly deluded by her ideas for them.

“I was thinking of going to bed early, actually. I’m too old for late-night TV.” He exaggerates a yawn and stretches his arms in the air for good measure.

The vein in her jaw jumps again. “We’re twins.”

“I’m aware.” He starts typing—the quote that Rohanne posted as a teaser, which he listened to over and over again until every syllable is etched into his memory—and goes back to ignoring Cersei, a move he stole from their father.

“Okay,” Cersei finally says. “I’ll go on my own. Taena can take the night off, too, poor thing.”

This is a test. They both know that the studio where the show is shot has good security—it has to, with the number of celebrities that come and go—and as long as she takes a cab and not a ride share, she should be fine. But the studio security has a divided focus and the cab is not _ entirely _safe, and there’s always paparazzi to worry about, and Melisandre is the one talk show host known for getting under her guests’ skin and Cersei’s got a thin one and she tends to be reckless when she’s upset, and… Jaime knows he’s failed the test. Or passed it, depending on who’s grading. “Fine,” he snaps. “I’ll go with you. But this is the last time. I can’t just follow you around anywhere. That’s why I assigned Trant.”

Her smile is wide and too quick. “No, of course. I won’t ask this of you again. Thanks, Jaime.”

Liars, the both of them.

* * *

At 5 pm, Jaime’s neck-deep into some background security check for a metal rock band his father insists on taking under their management. Tyrion fights it, and even uncle Kevan disapproves, but the old man digs in his heels and insists that the Bloody Mummers is a sound investment to make. Tyrion’s last-ditch attempt is to throw them to Jaime’s desk with a note that he should absolutely look for dirt on them harder than for the average talent. Jaime wants nothing to do with the company’s executive decisions, and he isn’t about to interfere, but Tyrion informs him that this group is bad news, and Father knows and doesn’t care, and _ do you really want them in the same building as the women in the company? _

Tyrion is right, of course, and Jaime feels his blood boil as he reads the criminal records he obtained from Varys. A few convictions, more charges, even more arrests. Drunk driving. Contempt of court. Vandalism. Assault and battery. Sexual assault. They’re so notorious they’ve rebranded from Toes of the Goat—horrible name—to Brave Companions, and now The Bloody Mummers, a name that fully embraces their criminal background.

And here’s a problem: Father knows all this. He still wants to bring them in. _ Why _ is of no import to Jaime. He’s more focused on _ how _to convince Tywin Lannister to not do something.

His phone buzzes. Goldenhand has just received a new e-mail.

It’s from Rohanne Storm.

Jaime jumps to his feet, crosses the floor, and closes his office door. He then drops on the couch next to the door before opening the e-mail.

Rohanne is formal. Jaime can almost feel the hesitation when she offers to link his site on her posts because, she says, “it’s the least I can do for everything you’ve done for me.” She’s clearly uncomfortable discussing the tip, as he is. That’s fine by him. He doesn’t need her gratitude, only that she continues producing content for him to listen to. He can’t wait for _ The Five Ghiscari Wars, _ which she promised will be up soon _ . _His hand itches for a pen. He needs to draw.

Cersei opens the door without knocking.

She frowns at the empty desk, then down to him on his couch. “Were you napping?”

In the space between the door opening and Cersei addressing him, his thumb has deftly pressed the power button of his phone, locking it. He doesn’t understand why, but something tells him he must not let Cersei find out about Rohanne. “Why are you here?”

“You’re supposed to come with me to Hot Seat.”

From behind Cersei’s shoulder, Taena Merryweather peeks out and waves her fingers at Jaime. She looks a little sympathetic, if not entirely remorseful. The week must have taken a toll on her as much as, if not more than, it has on Cersei. Poor girl.

They make their way to the parking lot, Jaime first, then Cersei with her heels clacking on the concrete floor, and Taena bringing up the rear, walking one and a half steps behind Cersei by force of habit. When they get to Jaime’s car, Cersei and Taena sit in the back. Cersei immediately is on her phone, her manicured nails tapping the glass screen, while Taena tries to get her to listen to the briefing she’s prepared in a folder, to no avail.

The drive is too quiet. Jaime longs to put on some music—Rohanne’s, preferably—but that would surely draw Cersei’s attention. She always finds fault in his tastes, especially his music taste. Tyrion has said that it’s borne out of her resentment towards the music industry. Cersei has attended enough lessons so she never sings out of tune, but she doesn’t have enough range, pitch-wise and emotion-wise.

“It’s too quiet,” Cersei announces, as though reading Jaime’s mind. “Turn on the radio.”

Jaime does, switching between stations until Cersei orders him to stop on a station that’s discussing her movie.

_ “…Azor Ahai Reborn: The Prince That Was Promised, I’m your host Grenn, here we have our usual Watchers on the Wall crew Pyp and Edd, how are we feeling today?” _

_ “Not great. Still got that hideous movie playing in my head.” _

_ “Ey, it’s not that bad, Edd. At least the effects are good.” _

_ “I don’t understand why they can’t film a single action scene with less than a dozen cuts. Hurts my head trying to follow it. And the plot doesn’t even make sense.” _

_ “But the cast is nice to look at, huh? That Cersei Lannister is a smokin’ hot bird.” _

_ “A bird that can’t act, that’s what. That death scene is supposed to be sad, but none of us feel bad about it. It’s like felling a log of tree.” _

Jaime switches it to another station. Lyanna Stark’s hit new single Ha-Ha-Harrenhal plays instead, alluding not-so-subtly to her affair with Rhaegar and _ “now he’s going down, down, on the pussy of his lion queen…” _

“Enough,” Cersei says. “Just turn it off.”

Turning off the radio, Jaime glances at Cersei and Taena from the rearview mirror. Cersei looks radiant—she always does look the most beautiful when enraged—and her frame is taut, crossed arms and crossed legs, her face turned to the window. Taena’s face is ashen, and once more she places the briefing folder in front of her like a shield.

“This is the final list of questions—”

“Not now, Taena.”

“But it’s Mel—”

“Is anything there outside of the pre-approved question list we gave to the press?”

“No, but—”

“Then I don’t care. If the crone asks anything we didn’t approve, I’ll have Father deal with her pathetic show.” She takes a swig from a small flask. “I don’t understand why you think I can’t handle one interview.”

Taena looks at the rearview mirror, catching Jaime’s gaze. He quietly shakes his head at her. There’s no use trying to make Cersei see reason when she’s in one of her moods. The best they can do is make sure she’s mollified enough before the cameras are rolling. Taena sighs. She, too, looks out the window.

A light drizzle starts to fall, and the sound of water hitting the car roof is what keeps them company for the rest of the drive.

* * *

What started as a drizzle turned into a downpour, flooding the streets around River Gate, which results in road closures, which means detours and even more traffic. By the time they arrive, it’s already eight. Cersei’s make-up artist, a slender young man with curly blue hair and all-blue getup, is waiting for them at the staff entrance, wringing his hands, a hanger with something pink and airy dangling from his arm and a make-up box by his feet. He’s probably fresh out of beauty school. Cersei’s running low on make-up artists, and Jaime knows Tyrion’s growing desperate with each dismissal.

The crew ushers the four of them to hair and make-up. Jaime doesn’t follow them into the dressing room, instead choosing to lean on the wall next to the door. He needs a breather. He opens his phone, looking for Rohanne’s e-mail, reading it once more with her voice in his head. He drafts a reply.

> _ Hi Rohanne, _
> 
> _ Feel free to share my posts on your blog, if only to showcase that you have admirers. You owe me nothing. If I may be forward, _

Jaime pauses. He wonders if he should proceed.

> _ If I may be forward, your voice is the closest thing I have to an artistic muse. _

Is that too much, he wonders. It _ is _true, though. He hasn’t even finished the bear pit drawing, and already he has cover art ideas for her music. He leaves the line in and continues.

> _ It’s unfortunate that you don’t have more following. Your audiobooks are top-quality, rivalling even official ones, and your music helped me sleep better than ever last night. _
> 
> _ On The Five Ghiscari Wars, it’s funny you mentioned it, because I’ve listened to the preview you posted over and over again before you replied to my e-mail. If you can’t tell, I’m excited. _
> 
> _ I hope I haven’t been coming across too strongly. I have dyslexia, which has made me a devoted listener of audiobooks, and your readings are incredibly singular. Rest assured I’m no creep trying to get into your pants. I’m merely an excited fan. _
> 
> _ Best regards, _
> 
> _ Goldenhand _

Jaime sends it. No use in dwelling on the grammar when the contents are already so revealing. There’s something nerve-inducing about this… overture. Jaime is desperate for Rohanne to accept him, to not shy away from him. Maybe it’s because few people in his life know of his audiobook obsession, and no one knows of his artwork. Yes. That must be it.

He wanders to the crafty table, nabbing a couple of sandwiches before returning to his post next to the dressing room door. When he finishes the second sandwich, his phone buzzes. Thinking it’s a reply from Rohanne, Jaime unlocks the phone, his face falling as instead he comes face-to-face with a text from Tyrion.

_ Where are you? _

Jaime replies, _ setv. cers has hot seat 2nite. _

A set of ellipsis hovers for a few seconds, then, _ Seriously? She agreed to that? _

_ i guess. hoping she doesnt do anything dumb. _

The ellipsis hovers for longer than before. _ Good luck with that_, Tyrion finally sends. He ends it at that, saying nothing of why he wants to know where Jaime is. Jaime can guess. It’s probably something to do with the criminal band.

Jaime puts on his earphones and plays Rohanne’s music. He leans his head on the wall and watches the crew members running here and there. One of them, an older man with furrowed brows, stops in front of Cersei’s dressing room. He jerks his head towards the door, saying something inaudible.

Jaime takes off an earphone. “Sorry?” he asks.

“She decent yet? I need to wire her up,” the man says, lifting a set of clip mic and its transmitter.

Jaime knocks on the door. Taena opens it, looking harried and smelling like hairspray. “What?”

“Sound guy’s here. She decent?”

Taena sighs. “Sure. Why not. You come in too. She’s being difficult again.”

Jaime comes in with the sound guy to a half-dressed Cersei. She wears the same red wrap dress she wore earlier, but _ wear _ is a loose term, as it hangs open, exposing her matching black lingerie. She has a tall champagne glass filled with what Jaime guesses is bellini. Her hair is curled to perfection, her make-up striking in a way that TV make-up often is, but she isn’t what most people would call decent _ . _

Looking at Cersei with a terrified face is the make-up artist, shrinking into a corner with his make-up case cradled in his arms. _ Another one that won’t last past Saturday. _

“Gods, Cers, what are you doing?”

“How do I look?” Cersei asks, arms spread out, skin on display.

“You’re half-naked.”

“Nothing people haven’t seen before.” Cersei waves her bellini about in a dismissive gesture, and a bit of the drink splashes out and onto her knuckles. Her nose wrinkles. She jerks her chin at the make-up artist, who drops his case and scurries forward to take the glass from her.

“You’re not going to finish that?” Jaime asks, though he can see that Cersei has had more than enough. The studio is freezing, yet her face is flushed and her eyes are glazed, and only the flush can be partially attributed to the make-up.

“No.” To the sound guy, she asks, “Is that my mic?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Cersei demands. “Go on so I can finish getting dressed.”

Taena looks like she’s about to faint. “Cersei, you can’t. We agreed you would wear Ashara’s spring collection. I know it’s not red, but—”

“It’s _ pink_.”

“You’ve worn pink before,” Taena says, even though the look on her face suggests she knows this is not an appeal that will work. “You wore pink to Delish with Baelish last week.”

“What colour is Melisandre wearing?” Cersei asks.

“Red,” the sound guy says, to everyone’s surprise. They seem to have forgotten that he was there at all. “She always wears red.”

“I can’t wear _pink,_” Cersei says, spitting out the word as if it’s a curse, “to a late-night show where the host wears red. You should know this, Taena. Have Ashara send me a red dress, or I’ll wear this one.”

Taena looks at Jaime, a quiet plea.

“Where’s Ashara’s?” Jaime asks, relenting.

“Cobbler’s Square,” Taena says.

“Don’t think that’s an option. We’re on air in forty and even if they get on a train now it’ll take them an hour at least,” the sound guy says. His eyebrows are the type that’s permanently knitted together, but now there are deep furrows in the middle of his forehead. Jaime can’t help but respect the man. No doubt he’s seen his fair share of whining celebrities.

Jaime realizes, then, that everyone in the room is looking at him. Cersei, demanding his support. Taena, desperately begging—for what, Jaime is unsure. The sound guy, his one raised eyebrow an expectation of verdict, as though Jaime is the decisionmaker of the group. The make-up artist, pleading for Mother’s mercy.

How did Jaime end up in this situation?

He pinches the bridge of his nose, massaging the knob of cartilage. It’s an odd sensory thing he’s done since his nose decided to take that shape. It doesn’t lessen his headache, but it does give him an excuse to close his eyes and take a breath. He opens his eyes and looks at Cersei. “Wear whatever you want.” He nods at the sound guy before saying to Taena, “You call Ashara. I’ll call Arthur. We’ll… sort it out.” Arthur Dayne manages the finance aspect of Ashara’s fashion line. He was two years ahead of Jaime in uni, the captain of the MMA club when Jaime was a first year. They still go to the same gym, even now, and Jaime has never been so grateful for it.

He turns away to make his phone call, but Cersei says, “That can wait.”

“For what?”

“I would feel safer if you’re in the room until we’re done with the mic, Jaime. No offence,” Cersei adds to the sound guy, even though she clearly meant every offence.

“None taken, ma’am,” the sound guy says.

Jaime stands with arms crossed, watching as the sound guy wires Cersei up. Taena helps with arranging the dress to fall just so, concealing the blocky shape of the battery pack taped to the small of Cersei’s back. To his credit, the sound guy moves with brisk efficiency, his hands never touching Cersei’s bare skin. The whole ordeal is over in what feels like less time than it takes them to sort out the dress problem.

As the guy leaves the room, Jaime goes with him. When the door shuts behind them both, Jaime says, “Sorry about that.”

The sound guy shrugs. “Some of the guests are more particular than others. Been around long enough to see all kinds.”

“I meant the insinuation she made.”

“The state of the industry as it is, I understand her need for security. As I’m sure _you _do,” the sound guy says.

Jaime feels his jaw clenching. He hoped no one recognised him, but so much for that. Half the industry reviles him for the betrayal, never mind that had Jaime not beaten Aerys Targaryen to death that fateful day, the law would have done him in anyway. The other half seems to think Jaime some sort of saviour, even though he only acted on an impulse that came too late, after accusations were levelled and fingers were pointed, after women stepping up and risking reputation and work stability to bring the horrors Aerys did to light.

Too much judgement, speculation, dissection. Many have asked Jaime why. No one has actually listened, except for one.

Rhaella fled to Yi Ti, leaving soon after Jaime’s trial. She’d stayed only long enough to testify and keep Jaime out of jail. She still talks to Jaime sometimes. Last time she called, she told Jaime she’d been writing again. She’d also picked up gardening, growing her own vegetables.

The sound guy seems to notice Jaime’s unease, as he says, “If it helps, I don’t think anyone else recognised you. I only did because your sister called you by name.” He lifts his hand, as though going to pat Jaime’s shoulder in a fatherly gesture, then lowers it. “Right then. I’ve got more work to do and you’ve got a phone call to make. Good luck.”

With that, the sound guy leaves. Jaime leans on the wall outside the dressing room, gives himself a couple of seconds to just breathe, then pulls up Arthur’s contact and presses call.

As Jaime listens to the dial tone, he wonders again if there will be a day he stops catering to Cersei’s every whim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, they're going to graduate to chatting eventually.


	4. Brienne II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne goes swimming, eats comfort food, watches TV, and works through her existential crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for misogyny, homophobia, racism, and all-around awfulness. If you've stuck around you already know this isn't a Cersei-friendly fic, but might as well say it (and tag it): this is not a Cersei-friendly fic.

Brienne wasn’t planning to stop by the pool. She thought she would go straight home and finish working on _ The Five Ghiscari Wars, _so she could upload it tonight, since weekend uploads always get the best traffic. And yet, she finds herself pulling up at her usual pool. This is why, she supposes, she always keeps a bag filled with a towel, a swimsuit, and a pair of swimming goggles in her car boot. The mood strikes her at the oddest of times, like now, after a celebrity encounter and an incredibly nerve-wracking e-mail exchange.

There’s a giddy energy simmering under her skin, too, from Shireen’s victory. Brienne is sure there’s all sorts of armchair psychoanalysis that can be made about why she is so proud of Shireen, and Brienne will certainly hear all about it at work on Monday, but for now, she basks in it.

It’s already half past five; the pool is open until 7 pm, which means Brienne only has an hour or so. The children have all gone home. A few casual swimmers remain, floating near the edges of the pool or leaning on the side, chatting lightly, done with exercise but unwilling to rinse yet. Brienne rinses and puts on her suit in record time, not wanting to waste time outside of the water, stretches and warms up _ just enough _but not as thoroughly as her old swim coach Mr Goodwin would demand, and at last, she dives in, her body an arc, the water parting under her fingertips as though she is the Drowned God himself. Wasting no momentum, she immediately swims the length of the pool with the butterfly stroke.

Gods, but she’s good. When in water, it doesn’t matter that she has thin, lank hair, or freckles across her skin, or a height that marks her a freak. Her body is an instrument that _ works, _that she knows how to use, that won medal after medal in her youth. She could have gone pro, and she would have, if not for her lofty teenaged dreams of music and singing. Though she was in the Conservatoire swim club, she never practised enough to qualify for the team, being so obsessed with her coursework, the delight of learning music composition formally for the first time, and the terror of losing her scholarship should her GPA drop by a decimal. Now, she’s in good shape for the average person, but too out of practice to be a pro athlete, and in a few years, she’ll be too old. The window for second-guessing her choices is now long gone.

She swims lap after lap, switching between the front crawl and the breaststroke every couple of laps. It starts drizzling, about half an hour in, but she ignores the rain. When it becomes heavier, she does one lap of backstroke to cool down. She’s sufficiently tired after, the edge of her buzzing energy sapped away by the water. She rinses herself with scalding hot water, then puts on her clothes and leaves. She’ll let her hair air-dry. She still has to condition it again, later, unless she wants it to become even more dry and listless.

The air around her feels like phantom water for the rest of the drive. It’s always been like that, for Brienne. After a good swim, she’ll still smell the chlorine and feel as though there’s less gravity, as though she’s still partly floating, even though it’s dry all around her in the car. She can even, if she listens hard enough, hear the rumbling bubbly water around her, a sound different from the hammering of raindrops on the car roof. It’s not _ bad, _not dizziness or hypotension or any of the other horror stories post-swimming. It just feels like she takes a bit of the water with her.

She does feel her stamina being not what it used to be. Back when she still lived on Tarth, she could spend hours in the water and not have enough. Her father used to say she had the sea in her. He was disappointed when she told him that she wanted to focus on music and not pursue swimming professionally, as he had in his prime, but he smiled and put his hand on hers and said he would support her dreams no matter what.

Every now and then, Brienne entertains the idea of switching professions to swim coach, but that feels like giving up, somehow. Like she’s admitting to everyone who doubts her that yes, it’s true, Brienne Tarth would never make it in the music industry. Not that she’s _ making it _right now, with her music technically being out in public but listened to by no one, but at least she’s using her music knowledge to support her students. Brienne certainly has never been successful enough to get a star singer’s number, unlike Shireen.

The rain is an all-out torrent when she is finally close to home. Brienne shudders to think of how her neighbourhood is faring. Flea Bottom is not near the sea, no, but it’s at the foot of the Hill of Rhaenys, with the worst sewerage system in the city to boot. At least her flat is on the fourth floor. On a day-to-day basis, she endures the weak shower pressure, but nights like these, she at least can be reasonably certain that her toilet won’t back up.

Hopefully.

Maybe she shouldn’t go home quite yet. Better wait it out until the rain lets up a bit.

Brienne takes a turn from Dragon Gate, going west and a bit uphill until she reaches Chataya’s. It’s a small, well-kept restaurant, with jewel-toned décor, wooden furniture, and warm light sconces lining the walls. Their menu is not extensive—a handful of Summer Islander dishes, hearty and filling, the recipe perfected over the years. The price, while entirely reasonable, is a bit above Brienne’s usual budget, which means she reserves it for days when she needs a little bit of pick-me-up.

Miraculously, she finds parking that’s not even a block away, and so when she arrives, she isn’t too soaked. The restaurant is empty save for a few patrons who’s clearly finished eating and only waiting for the rain to let up.

“Brienne, darling. Long day?” Alayaya, the owner’s daughter, greeted as Brienne walked in. She’s beautiful as usual, wearing jeans and the uniform red button-up, her smile welcoming and genuine.

Brienne winces. “Does it show?”

Alayaya chuckles. “Just a little. You pick up on these things when you run a comfort food restaurant. See a customer and you can tell right away that they’ve been having a bad day before they walk in.” She weaves her way between the tables and pulls out a chair for Brienne in the back corner. Her usual, facing the TV.

“And after they walk in?” Brienne asks, sitting down on the chair. Already she feels better, and only from Alayaya’s warmth and the fact that she remembers Brienne’s preferred table.

“You tell me. The gumbo as usual, or do you want something else for a change?”

_ What a question, _Brienne thinks. As a rule, it takes a lot for her to venture outside the known and comfortable. The first time she visited Chataya’s, she'd just moved here, and this was the nearest restaurant on a “Top Ten Comfort Food in King’s Landing” list. The gumbo is the signature dish, with a smiling lobster in a chef’s hat next to the entry on the menu, so she ordered that, and never strayed since, not once. And yet, Brienne feels like a bowl of gumbo is not going to be what she orders tonight.

“How about this,” Alayaya says, placing the menu in front of Brienne. “I’ll get you a cup of spiced tea first, and then you tell me what you want to eat. There’s no rush. Place’s empty anyway.”

_ Bless this restaurant and its owners_. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, darling. If I may recommend, we got an especially good shipment of shrimps today, so either the bisque or the jambalaya will be great. But it’s up to you.” With a wink, she saunters off, leaving Brienne to the menu and her thoughts.

The bisque pictured on the menu looks underwhelming. It’s a plain bowl of something creamy, garnished with a sprinkle of green that’s probably parsley. A toasted slice of baguette is propped next to it. It looks… safe. Meanwhile, the photo they have for the jambalaya is a chaotic plate of rice and shrimps and all sorts of things, mixed together with little care for presentation.

Maybe Brienne should consult the ‘net. Surely there’s a ton of reviews for this place? She takes her phone out of her pocket, and only then she notices the blinking notification light. The sound must have been drowned by the rain, earlier. She unlocks it. An e-mail from Goldenhand.

She should read it later, when she’s well fed and in a better mood, but instead she taps the notification, opening the e-mail. Two seconds later, she not-so-gently drops the phone on the table, face-down, as she leans back and closes her eyes. One word is imprinted into her eyelids: _ muse._

A soft clatter sounds on her right, and Brienne peeks out to see Alayaya setting down a mug of tea on the table. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“I’m fine, just…” Brienne trails off, waving ineffectually at her phone. _ Goldenhand liked my music and they called me their muse. _

“Boy trouble?”

“No,” Brienne says, scoffing. “Nothing like that.” She takes a sip of the tea. It has some cinnamon and cardamom and honey, and it’s a little too sweet and entirely too perfect. The liquid travels down her throat and settles warm in her belly, which in return grumbles.

Alayaya chuckles, indulgent, as if she is still convinced that Brienne is having boy troubles. Luckily, she doesn’t prod, saying instead, “I think you’re ready to order, yes?”

Brienne blushes. She’s barely eaten anything today. A few crackers and coffee for breakfast, then a couple of convenience store sandwiches for lunch. She can use a big meal. “I’ll have both,” she declares.

“One bisque and one jambalaya. Can I get you anything else?”

_ Do you have any tips on how to not be awkward on e-mail? _“I’m alright, thanks, A.”

Alayaya leaves again, returning shortly with the bisque. Brienne inhales half the bowl. The warmth suffuses through her, and just like that, she is no longer drifting in the invisible water.

She reads the e-mail once more. There’s an odd sort of relief that comes from their reassurance that they aren’t a creep. Brienne had truly forgotten the fact that the internet is full of them, until she read Goldenhand’s e-mail. She’s encountered spambots, yes, but they’re not real sexual propositions. All of her listeners come from Weirwood Dreams anyway, and they all tend to keep to themselves.

Very few have said anything about her music. None has ever called her their muse. Even when no one knows what she looks like, she inspires little.

But if this is some sort of trick to get her divulge her personal information, or to get her to buy some sort of herbal supplements… she can’t see _ how_. They haven’t asked her for anything, other than if they could link her site on their post. This second e-mail doesn’t even ask for anything. If anything, they have given Brienne money without expecting her to find them, and have said nothing about that in the e-mails.

Maybe Goldenhand _ is _simply a fan of her audiobooks and her music.

That thought is a dangerous one. Creating content in a virtual vacuum means not worrying over reception or worthiness. Why must that change? Sure, this new “fan” just gave her enough money to buy half a new laptop. Sure, that means she can soon work more efficiently, thus creating more content with less energy. Sure, if this keeps up, she can rent studios more often and record more songs.

But nothing has to change. Other than her laptop, maybe, which is nearing the end of its life whether she likes it or not. Her salary is enough to support an independent living, a decent one, if not lavish. She’s been getting great feedback on her performance reviews. She’s in consideration to be a homeroom teacher next year, which means more hours and responsibilities and a nice small pay rise. The choir club loves her. She’s coached Shireen and supported her through her first competition.

Brienne has a good life. Better than many. She should be grateful, right?

And yet, she wants more. Not fame, or stardom, not really, but to have her voice be heard. Write songs and sing them and have the words echo in the chambers of her listeners’ hearts. She wants to live off them, instead of having to push them to the dead of night or the weekend. She wants to sing and be remembered in songs.

She goes utterly still, the knowledge a lump in her throat. She feels her breath leaving her, a small, inaudible “oh.” In one fell swoop, her life is suddenly no longer enough.

No, that’s not right either. Her life hasn’t been enough for a long time. All these were things she’s wanted since before she knew heartbreak. She’s just been settling, compromising, little by little with every failed audition and rejected demo CD. The complacency is a lie she’s been telling herself, and it’s flimsy enough to be shaken by an hour of swimming. The e-mail just shatters the illusion completely.

It’s hard to breathe.

Brienne sips a little more tea and focuses on its taste. She’s glad she’s at least at Chataya’s instead of at home. Processing this in her little hovel would probably drive her a touch batty. She eats the rest of her bisque, mopping the bowl with the slice of baguette, and as if timed, Chataya herself arrives to take the bowl away, replacing it with a plate of jambalaya with all its spicy fragrance.

“Enjoy, darling.” Chataya then looks up to the TV and turns to Brienne with a slight smile. “Would you mind if we turn up the volume?”

Brienne looks at the TV. _ Hot Seat, _a popular late-night talk show on SETV, is playing. Two grey armchairs are placed at an angle on the stage, a low table between them. On one sits the host, Melisandre, wearing a deep crimson pantsuit and the iconic gold choker with its rough-cut ruby that sometimes looks like it glows. She is ageless, looking exactly the same as she had when Brienne was a toddler. On the other armchair is Cersei Lannister, her golden hair displayed to its best advantage under the TV lights, her wrap dress in a red that appears a touch faded compared to Melisandre’s. She sprawls rather than sits, her hand cradling a glass of rosé as she speaks inaudibly.

“Go ahead,” Brienne says. Somehow, she finds in her a need to witness this.

Chataya goes behind the counter, emerging with a remote control, which she aims at the TV.

“… _ creative differences_, but the truth of it is Rhaegar simply cannot stand the idea of casting a newcomer as Azor Ahai.” Cersei laughs.

“Did you think of something funny?” Melisandre asks.

“Maybe.” A thin smile plays on Cersei’s lips, coy. The camera focuses on her. It’s visible to everyone how her eyes are slightly glazed and the flush goes down her neck. “Just... no one understands Rhaegar. Not even… what is her name? That snake from Dorne.”

“Elia Martell?”

“That’s it. The ex-wife.” Cersei drinks. “Miss goody-two-shoes doesn’t like his success.”

“You don’t think the divorce has more to do with his infidelity?”

“Why did he cheat?”

Melisandre says, “His statement—”

“I’ll tell you. Why. She’s not giving him what he needs.” Cersei sits straighter, now, and presses one hand to her chest. “That’s why I’m his wife now. I understand him.”

“Does that include his creative vision for the film?”

Cersei frowns, as if uncomprehending. At last she says, “Creative vision… him as Azor Ahai, you mean? Yes, I think the role suits him.” She laughs, again. “People don’t get that.”

“Is this why, in his capacity as the film producer, Rhaegar removed Selmy from the director seat?”

“No one _ liked _ Selmy on set,” Cersei says, sneering. Brienne finds that hard to believe. Barristan Selmy is a national treasure. “He has very antiq—arch—old ideas on chivalry and something he calls _ decency_. _ My _death scene—”

The audience gasps.

“Spoiler alert if you haven’t watched the film,” Melisandre interjects, glancing at the audience with wide eyes.

“Whatever,” Cersei waves her glass dismissively. “The wife is crying, giving their position away to the enemy, and so Azor Ahai embraces and comforts her, but she keeps crying, so he stabs her with his sword, and it turns into… oh I don’t remember. The magic sword with the stupid name.”

“Did Selmy oppose that… _ creative _decision?”

Cersei drains her glass and slams it on the table between the armchairs, gesturing then to someone off-screen before continuing, “He used a lot of words that day. He said it’s an offensive portrayal of women in war. He said some other things. I don’t remember. I don’t care.” She pauses. “But I remember that he never asked me, _ a woman_, what my opinion was.”

“And what is your opinion?” Melisandre asks.

“I think it’s a good, dramatic storyline that shows how much a woman’s death can mean in times of war.” The line is quick, rehearsed, yet there’s a slur to Cersei’s words, and some stumbling around _ woman’s death_. Brienne can easily tell that’s not the exact words that Cersei was supposed to say.

Melisandre asks, calmly, “Wouldn’t she be worth more if she’s alive?”

“You don’t read, do you? Do they teach children to read where you’re from? The original legend—fuck, even the old film killed the wife.”

“The older film—”

“Why not re-write the legend, is that it? Put a _ feminist _ spin on it. Very… trendy. A war isn’t a place for a woman.”

“Women have been part of the military for a few decades now.”

“Congratulations on their lesbianism.” Cersei extends a hand, and an aide appears to place a fresh glass of rosé in it. She takes a generous gulp. “Good for them.”

“Are you saying women enter the military because they’re gay?”

“Have you seen them? They don’t look straight to me. Don’t tell me you want to fight in a war?” Gasping, she asks, “Is that why you wear red? You must miss the communism in Asshai. Did you want to stay?”

Melisandre is silent for a couple of beats. Someone in the audience yells, “Shut up, bitch!” She glances at the audience, and the heckling dies down.

At last, she says, her voice quiet, “I wanted to stay, but they packed me up with the other children and sent me across the Narrow Sea.”

“And now you’re here, sleeping with your TV exec to keep your programme running, and you still want to fight?”

The audience breaks into a loud, uncoordinated booing, but Melisandre raises a hand and they fall silent within seconds. She says, “This isn’t about me. You said Selmy never asked your opinion as a woman, but have you asked other women what they think of your film? Reviews from the world's prominent female critics do not paint it in a flattering light.”

“Other women. They blather and get offended and protest and point fingers, but what have they ever done? I don’t see them making films. Too busy complaining.”

Melisandre smiles the smile of a journalist who is so close to a good soundbite, she can smell it. “And you, yourself, how do you differ from other women?”

“I work. _ Azor Ahai Reborn _ has already made… how much did we… _ Taena _ —” Cersei burps a little. She presses her fingers to her lips, dainty even when raving. “—whatever. We’re sitting on top of the box office until _ Nine Nine _ — _ Nine Nights in Naath _ comes out. Where I’m also starring_._”

“Some people have remarked that your success is unearned.”

“I’ve unearned more money than they could ever get for scalping—selling—tickets to my films.” Cersei toasts the camera and downs the entirety of her second rosé in one go. They cut to commercial.

Chataya says, too loud in the near-empty restaurant, “Well, fuck that bitch.”

“Agreed,” Alayaya said from behind the counter. “I hope she drowns in her booze.”

Brienne, on the other hand, is livid for an entirely different reason. “That’s not how the legend goes.”

“What’s that, darling?” Chataya asks.

“Nissa Nissa isn’t killed because she can’t stop crying. She willingly sacrifices herself. Lightbringer is powerful because it contains her blood and soul and strength and courage, and in that sense, she _ is _Lightbringer. I can’t believe I planned to watch...” Brienne trails off, an idea forming in her head. She then stands abruptly, the table creaking as she pushes it away from her. “I should go.”

“Now, hold on a minute,” Chataya says, in a commanding tone that halts Brienne’s movement. “You haven’t touched your jambalaya.”

Brienne looks at the jambalaya. It still looks as inviting as before, and yet. This can’t wait. “Can I have it to go?”

“I’m not going to let you drive in the rain when you’re clearly upset. Now sit down and tell me why you have to go now.”

“I have to write,” Brienne answers, realizing that it probably sounds silly to Chataya.

“Alright. And why can’t you do that here as you eat your food?”

“I need pen and paper?”

“You think we don’t have pen and paper? Alayaya.”

“On it.” Alayaya comes out from behind the counter, setting several sheets of notebook paper and a Chataya’s branded pen in front of Brienne. “Will that do?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Eat your jambalaya, Bri. Mama hates it if it goes cold uneaten.” Alayaya takes Brienne’s mug. “I’ll get you a top-up.”

The rain is still falling hard out there, but it’s warm here in this corner of Chataya’s as Brienne eats a jambalaya for the first time in her life, humming a melody in between mouthfuls, her hand scribbling lyrics and chords on notebook paper with a cheap plastic ballpoint.

An hour later, the jambalaya is long gone and the third tea of the night a low puddle at the bottom of the mug, but Brienne is humming, tapping the pen in a rhythm, scratching out words and replacing them with ones that fit better. She’s making good progress. Rarely do her songs come to her as easily as this one, and yet she can hear the chorus already in her head: _ they’ll remember me a woman, a sacrifice / the one who had to die / but I’m the smith and the forge / and the fire that lights up the ground / I bring the light. _

* * *

> _ To: Golden Hand (goldenhand.arts@ravenmail.com)_
> 
> _Subject: Request for feedback_
> 
> _ Attachments: [lightbringer.mp3] [lightbringer lyrics.txt] _
> 
> _ Hi Goldenhand, _
> 
> _ Thank you very much for your kind words. _
> 
> _ I’m sorry that The Five Ghiscari Wars isn’t up yet, but I would like to ask you for a favour. Since you’re the only person who knows about my music and cares enough to talk about it with me, would you mind giving this a listen and sending me your feedback? It’s a very rough recording and I wrote it in about an hour. I hope this isn’t too much trouble for you. _
> 
> _ All my best, _
> 
> _ Rohanne Storm _

* * *

** _goldenhand_ ** _ [02:11] _  
_ 7 hells rohanne _  
_ that’s a really good song i dont know what u want me to say _ _  
i had a shitty night but the song made it worth it_

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [02:12] _  
_ idk what feedback i can give _  
_ im not a music expert _  
_ i probably would like piano more than guitar _  
_ more classic rohanne storm iykwim _ _  
but u do u_

** _goldenhand_ ** _ [02:14] _  
_ btw i hope u dont mind i use ravenchat _  
_ emails r a pain _  
_ & sry 4 texting so late ur probably asleep _  
_ anw thats a great song tx for sharing w/ me _ _  
ur probably asleep huh_

** _goldenhand_ ** _ [04:56] _  
_ i cant sleep so i made this 4 ur song _ _  
if u want u can use it as cover image_

_ [download attachment: lightbringercoverfinalfinal.png - 867 kb] _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [04:58] _  
_ ok i should sleep now _  
_ tx again for the song _ _  
night/morning :-)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Summer Islander cuisine is basically Creole. I am very uncreative and you will have to cope with it.
> 
> Will this story turn into an all-out songfic? Tune in to find out! (No, it absolutely will not, can you imagine me having to write lyrics to an entire song?)
> 
> Thank you to Luthien for the beta, slipsthrufingers for telling me to make Cersei even drunker, and ImberReader for helping me get into Cersei's headspace. And to you, for reading thus far. Until the next chapter!
> 
> (I told you they would finally graduate from e-mails.)


	5. Jaime III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime goes to work the Monday after Cersei had a meltdown on national TV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK? Thank you so much for sticking with this story and with me. Here's the latest chapter, from Jaime's POV, and it is a chunky one! Thanks to the usual folks who let me yell at you about this fic and help me continue (which includes the entirety of my tumblr followers, in this case, since I whine about this fic so much). And last but not least, thanks slipsthrufingers and Luthien, who beta-read this baby and polished my funky grammar.

When Jaime wakes up on Sunday afternoon, he has a headache and no reply from Rohanne. She’s read his messages, but that is all. He checks her blog, and there’s no new post either. The only evidence that she has written a song—and what a song it is—rests in Jaime’s inbox. He remembers the slightly scratchy audio and the sound of drizzling rain on a tin roof and he wonders if they’re intentionally included or if, in her haste and fury, she’d forgotten about editing or cleaning. He thinks he might prefer the second. That she was so very moved by the maladapted legend, she wrote a counterargument in the form of a song.

And then sent it to him, and only him, if her e-mail is to be believed.

Jaime believes her. He knows a little about pursuing his interests alone, away from the eyes of people who will scorn them. He also knows the gripping fear of putting one’s work out there, for the scrutiny of others, and the fear of giving an unwanted gift. He did both in one stroke of insomnia, and she’d received his gift, and she hadn’t responded.

He would be lying if he said it doesn’t sting just a little.

Eventually, he gets tired of staring into his phone, so he gets up and about. He orders a wrap from the salad bar down the street, takes a shower, gets the delivered wrap, eats his 3 pm breakfast, sketches a little on his sketchbook while listening to the song again, tweaks the opacity of a gradient map on the cover art he made for Rohanne from 24% to 22% and then 27%, changes the layout of his site around three times but then settling on the one he’s had all along, and soon it’s dark outside and he is tired but he hasn’t accomplished a thing. His Goldenhand account is quiet. For once, he tucks himself into bed at 9 pm, and as he does so, he wonders what Rohanne is doing, wherever she may be.

* * *

“Morning, sir,” Peck says as Jaime walks through the door. The lad looks a little ill. “The president said you’re to meet him as soon as you get here.” Not ill, then, Jaime decides. Just suffering from Tywin-itis.

“Yay,” Jaime says flatly. “Any other good news?”

“Mr Targaryen was here earlier, but he had to leave for another appointment. He said he’d be back, though.”

“Did he say it in a villainous way, or…”

Peck ducks and hides his smile, and as he pretends sorting out some papers, he says, “Your brother was here, too, and he said you should read his texts.”

Jaime takes off his suit jacket, throws it on his couch, pops a button, and loosens his tie. He rolls up his sleeves, purposefully making the left uneven with the right, and then he musses up his hair. He spreads his arms, grinning at Peck. “How do I look?”

“Like you’re trying to piss your dad off, sir.”

Jaime pats the shoulder of his assistant on the way out. “Good man. Nothing like a bit of an ego boost before facing the old lion.”

The elevator opens as soon as Jaime presses the button. The ride to the top floor, where his father sits and holds court as president and CEO, is quick and quiet. Jaime resists opening his phone and checking the texts Tyrion sent him, instead trying to still his mind. Father can smell fear like a snake. They all may call him a lion, but he is as cold-blooded as they come.

When Jaime enters, the old man is on a ladder, hanging a stag’s head on the wall right behind his seat.

“A bit macabre for this day and age, don’t you think?”

“You didn’t knock,” Tywin says. He takes in Jaime’s dishevelled appearance. “When you work in this office, you can decide how to decorate. Fix your tie and your sleeves.”

“I’m good, thanks. How are you, Father? You look well.”

Tywin looks like he has one foot in the grave already. His skin is sallow, and as he gets down the ladder with stilted movements, sweat beads on his temple. The view is unsettling. Tywin Lannister, a tycoon if there ever was one, is aging—joints creaking, liver spots forming, and skin turning into paper. It’s all natural, since he is decades past his youth, but it feels only yesterday that he taught Jaime how to shoot.

Jaime eyes the stag and its impressive antlers, perfectly symmetrical. There’s no doubt whatsoever that Father shot the animal himself, possibly also butchered it himself, before sending the head to a taxidermist. Jaime asks, off-handed, “Went hunting recently?”

“We need to talk about your recent work for the company.”

“Is it about that band you want to bring in?” Jaime asks, fully knowing that it’s not.

“Yes,” Tywin says, and Jaime tries his best at containing his surprise. “Your brother is against them.”

“Next you’ll tell me he’s wrong,” Jaime says.

“He isn’t,” Tywin replies, surprising Jaime once more. “And he is right to bring the matter to your attention. So, tell me.” Tywin gets around the table, standing before Jaime. Their eyes are level with each other. “What will you do?”

The stag is on the wall, staring at the room with its glass eyes, and yet it is Jaime who feels as if he’s in a hunter’s scope. “I did my due diligence. As your director of security, I cannot in good conscience approve their recruitment.”

The edges of Tywin’s eyes twitch minutely, his jaw tightening. Thirty years ago, that would have meant a caning. Now, though, he merely returns behind his desk and sits on his chair. “Your objection is noted,” he says. “On your way out, tell someone to get this ladder out of my office.”

“That’s it?” Jaime asks. “You’re going to ignore my professional judgement?”

“You may think your title means something, son, but I am your president and CEO. Unless you decide to step up, it is _ my _ professional judgement that matters in the end.” Tywin picks up his pen, a fountain pen that he only ever uses for signing documents. “I thought you’d finally grown a spine when you chose to handle the matter with House of Dayne the way you did. It’s not the first time you’ve fallen short of my expectations.” He uncaps the pen. A dismissal, Jaime knows, but he’s not about to let his father recruit a band of violent criminals just to spite him.

“What do I have to do?” Jaime asks, his throat involuntarily tightening under the snare.

“There’s a board meeting on Thursday. Mainly, we will discuss your sister’s misstep, but there will be, as always, an empty seat for you. You may have a few minutes to raise the issue of the Bloody Mummers.”

Jaime closes his eyes. He can still let this go. There’s no way the band will be let in without strong clauses in their contract. Tywin Lannister is not so stupid that he’d let some thugs brutalize the other talents signed under the company. And yet, Jaime knows firsthand how easily things like this can be swept under the rug, with enough power and money—both things Tywin is not short of. Finally, he says, “All right. Fine. I’ll come.”

“Good,” his father says, leaning back in his chair, hands steepled before him. “My assistant will put it on your calendar.”

* * *

Jaime runs into Elia and Ellaria on his way back to his office, and he must look so horrifying that Elia instantly latches onto his arm and says, “Come have brunch with me.”

_ “Why?” _Jaime asks, even though he follows Elia anyway.

“Because you look terrible, I know you haven’t eaten anything today, which I can tell because we’re friends, and I can have brunch with my friend.” She looks at Jaime as though daring him to contradict her, although in a way that is utterly sweet that he can’t even resent her for it.

“Well, if you have time,” Jaime says. It’s a weak protest, if it even counts as one. He had been walking on autopilot before Elia accosted him. A trip outside of the company building seems as good an idea as any.

Ellaria purses her lips but says nothing. She’s technically employed by the company, but has been engaged to Elia’s brother for ten years. Since Rhaegar married Cersei and then the stalker incident happened, Ellaria has made her side clear, and it isn’t with anyone carrying the Lannister name.

“I do,” Elia says, glancing at Ellaria. “Ellaria and I were going to go through some offers, but that can wait until after some pancakes, don’t you think?”

Ellaria tilts her head in a “well, go on then” way. “I’ll just sort out some paperwork on my desk while you’re out.”

“I can get you a coffee. And a pastry too?” Elia asks.

“Sure,” Ellaria says neutrally, as though it’s a normal thing for a star to go on a coffee run for their manager. And it is, of course, the normal for Elia, but Jaime can’t help but think of Cersei, who would never in a million years think of buying Taena a coffee. Gifts, yes, occasionally and performatively, but never casual, every day favours that aren’t somehow witnessed and documented.

Elia doesn’t frogmarch Jaime to a restaurant down the block, but her gentle hold on his elbow has the same effect. He simply follows her lead, with half his mind still in Tywin’s office and the other half engaged in bodyguarding Elia. Some people wave and smile at her, a few others take pictures with their cellphones, and there are even some paps whom she greets with a smile. No one stops them, mercifully, and the restaurant they go to is used to celebrity patronage. The waiter takes one look at Elia and ushers her and Jaime to a corner table, partially concealed from the outside window by a large indoor plant.

“Thank you, Hot Pie,” Elia says.

“Your name is Hot Pie?” Jaime asks the waiter. “That’s… new,” he finishes lamely. He has other words in mind, but Elia is looking at them both with an interested smile and that is enough to make Jaime rethink his potentially mean comment.

“Just what people call me. I make the best kidney pies, sir.” Hot Pie is probably the poster boy of the saying “never trust a skinny chef”. He’s young and eager, which is probably why he works the floor on top of the kitchen.

“He does,” Elia says. “I’ll have a triple pancake with… berries would be nice, wouldn’t it? And chocolate drizzle. And an iced caramel latte.”

“I thought you said the pies are good,” Jaime says.

“They are,” Elia confirms, “but doesn’t it feel weird to eat them for breakfast?”

“Why?” Jaime and Hot Pie ask at the same time. The latter seems a little miffed by that statement.

“Just… weird?” Elia says. “I don’t know. It’s not a rational thing. But you should absolutely try the pie.”

“Okay. If you say so.” He looks at Hot Pie. “I’ll have a red eye, too.”

Hot Pie confirms their orders, then leaves them. Elia asks, cheerily, “So, how was your weekend?”

Jaime levels a stare at her. “You know how my weekend was.”

“I do,” Elia says, smiling apologetically, “but if you don’t want to talk about Saturday night, we can talk about Sunday?”

Jaime’s Sunday is at best disappointing, so he asks her, “How was _ your _weekend?”

“It was nice,” she says, smiling. “I judged a singing competition on Saturday, and got to reconnect with a fellow Highgarden alumnus, for a bit. Her student won the grand prize. She’s very talented.”

“The student, or the old friend?”

Hot Pie sets their coffees in front of them. Elia takes a sip of her iced latte. “Both, I suppose. They’re both talented,” she says. “And I had lunch with Oberyn the next day.”

Jaime makes a face after a sip of his red eye. It’s as it should be, strong enough to carry him for the next thirty-six hours, but the taste is horrendous. No wonder they call this the “waller” up north. Only someone half-freezing and desperate, like those night’s watch people, would ever drink it. He pours three packets’ worth of sugar in it, stirs, then takes another sip. It’s now very sweet muck, which is only marginally better. Looking up, he sees Elia holding back a smile. “How’s he and Ellaria going?” Jaime asks.

“They’re going strong. With Sarella in Oldtown for pre-med, the nest is empty, but, well.” Elia goes a little pink. Jaime can imagine. Ellaria and Oberyn are always dangerously close to indecent exposure charges whenever they’re together. There’s no way they’re not putting the empty house to good use. Elia’s face turns somber, though, and she says, “He’s telling me to change management.”

Jaime leans back. “To Stark?” Stark Talents is not as large in scale as Casterly Management, but it’s older, and its artists consistently making bank. Hating them is a default setting programmed into the Lannister DNA. 

“Maybe. I don’t know yet. I refused, anyhow, so you don’t have to worry about it.” Her smile is reassuring, but Jaime’s stomach churns.

Since Rhaegar married Cersei, many role offers that would typically go to Elia have been waylaid, brought to Cersei’s desk instead. Acting has never been Elia’s first priority, so that’s not a great loss on her part. But the message is clear, and reinforced when a stalker attacks Elia right after she released a new single: the old queen is dead. Long live Queen Cersei.

Jaime says, carefully, “I won’t stop you, you know. A different management might be a better advocate for your career.” 

Elia smiles and places her hand on Jaime’s. “I know. You’re a good friend, Jaime. It’s just that if I leave, the company will still have my masters and I’m… I don’t think I’m ready to make that decision, not yet.”

Elia’s masters. All her songs from her pop debut until now, held hostage. The cruelty of it is staggering. “Of course,” Jaime says. “Father twisted my arm into sitting in a board meeting later this week, so if there’s anything I can do to help…”

Elia shakes her head. “No, not at the moment. Your plate is full as it is, anyway. You don’t have to worry about me. Ellaria’s taking good care of me.”

“Almost too good,” Jaime mutters under his breath, recalling Ellaria’s sour face earlier.

Before Elia can say anything to reassure Jaime of how nice Ellaria really is, Hot Pie arrives with their food. Elia’s pancakes are fluffy, each at least an inch tall and eight inches wide, a veritable tower when stacked together. They look like diabetes incarnate. Jaime’s pie is about the size of two stacked pancakes, the top crust warm golden with a smattering of blackpepper and sesame seeds, a star-shaped hole in the middle, and neat, even crimping at the edges. It looks completely unassuming, yet smells like a carnivore’s heaven.

They both dig in. Elia eats neatly, almost daintily, but with unrivaled speed. She cuts vertically through the stack, instead of one pancake at a time, and in five minutes she has put away a precise quarter of her tower. Jaime is still impressed, despite having known her and her inhuman appetite for years. She dabs the corners of her mouth with a napkin, sips her drink some more, then asks, “You said your father twisted your arm. Is that what’s bothering you?”

Jaime takes his time eating his pie. Elia and Hot Pie are both right: this is the best pie he’s ever had in his life. The meat is tender, the seasoning is _ just right _, and the crust is perfectly flaky. Even the meat to crust ratio is perfect. After swallowing, he says, “You know the old man has wanted me to sit on that board for ages, and he’s nothing if not a patient hunter.”

“Surely he doesn’t think of his children as prey,” Elia says, though she looks uncertain.

“He just told me he’d recruit a band that’s got a foot-long rap sheet. Unless, of course, I sit on the board and be a good heir.”

“I’m so sorry, Jaime,” Elia says. “I know you don’t want to be here.”

Jaime shrugs. “It’s done. Should’ve known something was up the moment Tyrion asked for my help with it.” _ Did Tyrion know? _The question intrudes suddenly, and Jaime cannot unthink it. He may not have seen the trap coming, but Tyrion has always been more attuned to the way Father thinks.

Elia leans forward, a concerned look on her face. “Jaime? What’s wrong?”

Jaime affects a smile. “Nothing.” Tyrion must have known. And yet, he had said nothing. Why?

“The pie’s cut,” Elia points out. “You’re just sawing through the plate now.”

So he is. The moment Jaime lifts his knife, the scraping sound that he didn’t even notice was there vanishes, and with it, his last resistance. He sets down his cutlery and says, “I think Tyrion knows that Father was using the band as leverage to get me on the board. What I don’t understand is why he didn’t tell me.”

“Have you considered that maybe Tyrion doesn’t know?” she asks. Always thinking the best of people, even if it meant undermining their intelligence. Elia prefers to think of people as kind and simple, rather than cruel and cunning.

“Do you think that’s possible?” Jaime asks, mildly.

“No,” Elia admits, toying with a blueberry atop her broken tower. “But the alternative is that he lied by omission—”

“Which he does on the regular,” Jaime says.

Elia shakes her head. “Not unless it's for a good reason, and especially not to you. But I don’t know what it could be, Jaime. You’ll need to talk to him about it.”

* * *

** _Tyrion Lannister_ ** _ [07:22] _  
_ Jaime _  
_ I need to talk to you _  
_ I’m meeting the Daynes later today and I think they want to stop lending to Cers _  
_ In which case I will need you to sweet-talk Arthur like you did on Sat night _  
_Call me_

A small part of Jaime had hoped that Tyrion’s texts had been about Father. A little late, maybe, but then Jaime could rest assured that Tyrion _ did _ try to warn him. Instead, it’s another request, another thing Tyrion wants. What’s behind this one? More schemes? More snares lying in wait to pull him into something he never asked for?

No, Jaime thinks. That’s unfair. Tyrion’s a good brother, if nothing else. Jaime types a reply: _ free now. call me _

But there’s no call. Instead, his phone buzzes and a text from someone else—the only person whose notification, at the moment, he doesn’t dread—shows up. By pure reflex, Jaime sits up straighter in his chair.

_** Rohanne Storm ** [14:14] _  
_ Hi, Goldenhand. I’m sorry for the late reply. _

_** goldenhand ** [14:15] _  
_ hey rohanne _  
_ no worries, wyd?_

_** Rohanne Storm ** [14:17] _  
_ Thank you very much for the art. I was ready to scrap the song, but your art convinced me that it was worth polishing. I impulsively rented a day at a recording studio doing exactly that. I followed your advice and changed the instrument to the piano, but then I noticed the studio had a harp that I could borrow, and so I recorded a second version with the harp. I’m afraid my playing is a little rusty. It’s been a while since I could practice my harp playing skills. _

_** goldenhand ** [14:19] _  
_ what the fuck _  
_ sorrt _  
_ *sorry _  
_ i didnt know u could play the harp _  
_ i thought its hard_

_** Rohanne Storm ** [14:20] _  
_ It is quite hard. _  
_ I think Professor Tyrell was ready to expel me for my clumsy fingers._

_** goldenhand ** [14:22] _  
_ so you DID go to a music school _  
_ i thought you sound classically trained _  
_ did you actually got expelled_

_** Rohanne Storm ** [14:25] _  
_ No. _  
_ I couldn’t afford to, being a scholarship student, and I did get the hang of it eventually. At least enough to pass the class, though I didn’t take the advanced course. _  
_ In any case, I was wondering if I could ask for your advice again?_

_** goldenhand ** [14:27] _  
_ ofc _  
_ full disclaimer tho i know almost nothing about music_

_** Rohanne Storm ** [14:28] _  
_ It’s fine. Musical criticism, after a certain point, is all about taste, and you seem to have good taste. _  
_ Your depiction of Lightbringer’s forging is a perfect visualisation of the song and legend interpretation I had in mind, anyway. _  
_ So if you don’t mind, can you give the two versions a listen and tell me which one you like better?_

_ [download attachment: lightbringerpianofinal.mp3 – 4.7 mb] _

_ [download attachment: lightbringerharpfinal.mp3 – 4.9 mb] _

_** goldenhand ** [14:31] _  
_ holy shit _  
_ YES _  
_ i was gonna work on some stuff but who cares _  
_ my day has been shitty and I will reward myself with music_

_** Rohanne Storm ** [14:34] _  
_ I’m sorry your day hasn’t been good, but please don’t feel like you have to listen to this now. _  
_ Surely your work is more important._

_** goldenhand ** [14:36] _  
_ ur my muse, not my boss_

An ellipsis shows up, vanishes, shows up again, vanishes again, and doesn’t show up for the third time. Jaime gains a small measure of satisfaction, the kind he gets whenever he wins a petty argument, but as quickly as the feeling blooms, it is tamped down by the doubt. Had he gone too far, then? Is Rohanne retreating, afraid of what can easily be misconstrued as come-ons from a stranger on the internet, or is she simply held up by something else happening in her universe?

He should tread carefully. It’s obvious that she’s reserved, from the way most of her texts read like short business e-mails. She may tolerate him making art of her work, but that doesn’t mean she wants to befriend him, and he has to be careful not to broach the line of what is best described as a parasocial relationship between an artist and her fan.

He already has his headphones plugged to his desktop—it is a matter of seconds to switch it to his phone and play the first file, the piano version. He was right when he told her the piano would work better than the guitar on this song. The ethereal quality of her husky vocals and lilting melody is elevated by soft piano chords, subtle, gentle, timeless. She chooses the bridge to modulate and change the key, bringing a more melancholic last verse, both triumph and sorrow. A victory won through a sacrifice.

The last note plays and the quietness that follows sounds like a wasteland.

Jaime had closed his eyes sometime during the song. He opens them and sees Rhaegar’s smirking face.

“I’m so sorry,” Rhaegar says, remorseless. “Did I disturb your nap?” He’s leaning on Jaime’s doorway, at a glance an artless pose, but in truth arranged to show his boyish charm to great effect. Rhaegar is similar to Cersei that way. They’re too aware of their good looks, and they both think too much of themselves because of it.

The difference is that Rhaegar takes great care in maintaining a kind façade.

Jaime lowers his headphones. “Can I help you?”

“I wanted to see how you were doing. I imagine you didn’t have a good weekend.”

Jaime bares his teeth. “On the contrary. I had a most entertaining weekend.”

“Do tell me more,” Rhaegar replies, all affability and grace as he takes a few steps and sprawls himself on Jaime’s sofa. “My own weekend wasn’t so great.”

Jaime thinks about telling Rhaegar how much he relishes seeing _ Azor Ahai Reborn _falling in the esteem of critics and audiences alike, and how much it delights him that while Cersei’s receiving her own backlash, most criticisms levelled on the movie were on its own self-importance.

Gods, it makes Jaime shudder whenever he’s reminded of how much he looked up to Rhaegar. The actor is a few years older than him and had been touted as a rising child star. Their fathers had encouraged the friendship, too, and there were several society parties where Jaime trailed Rhaegar around, watching and learning how to charm women of all ages.

They kept a good enough friendship, even as Rhaegar’s fame rose and Jaime began working for his father’s company, but then Rhaegar cheated on Elia, and not long after, Jaime killed Aerys.

Whatever civility that remains between them is merely ankle-deep, after that, but present still, always stopping them from straightforwardness. Like now, when instead of sniping Jaime says, “My favourite singer had a new song out.”

“Anyone I know?” Rhaegar asks. He doesn’t sound like he cares about the answer. A popular artist, and Jaime is boring. An indie one, and he’s precious.

It occurs to Jaime then: he can help Rohanne debut. He can get Tyrion or Elia to listen to Rohanne’s songs, and they will surely see her value. And yet. “I doubt it,” Jaime says. “She’s kind of indie.”

“Right.”

“Yep.” Jaime gestures at the headphones around his neck. “If that’s all, then.”

“Actually, I was going to ask you if you’ve talked to Cersei since Saturday night.”

_ Of course. _ “I was busy on Sunday. If you want to leave her a message, may I suggest writing it down and placing it on the pillow next to you? After all, that’s where she sleeps most nights.”

“I’m hoping a little brotherly perspective wouldn’t hurt.”

Jaime takes the headphones off his neck and stretches, yawning in the process. “I’m not sure what you want me to tell her that she doesn’t know already. Didn’t she say that she understands you more than anyone does?”

“If either of you think Cersei listens to anyone but dear old dad, you’re just as stupid as she is,” Tyrion says from the doorway. “Hello, Rhaegar. Jaime, I know you keep some liquor here.”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t make me climb you to get to the top shelf myself.”

Jaime gets up from his chair, relenting. He reaches up and gets his bottle of port and a tumbler, and pours Tyrion half a finger, barely a puddle.

“Stingy,” Tyrion says, but he downs it in one anyway and doesn’t ask for more. “Now, where were we—ah, yes. If Father hasn’t talked to our dear starlet, I’m sure he will soon. And I’m sure he’ll talk to _ you _ about hiring sensitivity consultants for your future projects.”

Rhaegar’s cheeks turn ever so slightly pink, though he maintains an expression of casual indifference.

“Oh, so he has already. It really is a good practice in this day and age, even though I know you disagree with,”—Tyrion makes air quotes with his fingers—“PC culture.”

“I just don’t think art should be inhibited by politics.”

“A debate for a different forum, I think, preferably an online one. I need to speak with my brother, if you’d be so kind to excuse us.” Tyrion gestures to the open door and stares up at Rhaegar with an insolence reserved only for the people he detests most.

For a moment, Jaime thinks he sees Rhaegar’s mask slip as a sneer forms, briefly, before being replaced with an empty smile. “Sure. I have to meet with Jon, anyway. He’s got some contracts he wants me to sign.”

When Rhaegar is out of earshot, Tyrion closes the door and hops on the chair in front of Jaime’s desk. “Peck told me you’ve talked to Father.”

This time, Jaime pours a finger of port for himself. He takes a bracing gulp before he says, “Anything you wanted to tell me before I did?”

Tyrion looks almost chagrined, but he says nothing.

“I didn’t think so,” Jaime says. Then, a thought dawns on him. “Was it _ your _ idea?”

This time, Tyrion answers. “Of course not,” he snaps. “This isn’t ideal for me either, you know.”

“If it’s not, then why didn’t you warn me?”

“Because having you more involved in the company is a good thing. Ideally, of course, you leave the company because you’re oh so miserable here, and then I get to be the backup heir Father never wanted, but now needs. But you’re not going anywhere, and Cersei’s new boy toy is increasingly closer to Father’s ear, even with his new movie tanking, and between you and him, you have more sense.”

“You mean I’m more likely to do what you want.”

Tyrion shrugs. “Like I said, sense.”

“I don’t suppose you stopped for a while to consider what my view on this is.” Jaime keeps himself still, keeps his face neutral. It won’t do to say something he regrets. He looks down on the tumbler. His fingertips are white against the crystal.

Tyrion notices. But there’s a dogged look to him, one of which Jaime has never been on the receiving end. Tyrion says, “It’s hard to factor in ‘I don’t want to’ into my considerations. Unless you’ve decided to have a different view, or _ any _ view, on anything pertaining your role in the company?” He pauses, then says, “Drink your swill.”

Jaime downs his port. He knows about Tyrion’s resentment, but it has never been so apparent, and never been aimed so blatantly at Jaime. And yet, Jaime looks back to every time he has mentioned Father’s diatribes to Tyrion. Jaime remembers how he’s always had a seat on the board, despite never attending a meeting. Tyrion, meanwhile, is stuck as Human Resources Manager, a position he excels in, but is wasted on. Jaime has scorned the privilege Tyrion longs for, while still claiming it by staying.

_ It still doesn’t make it right for him to set me up like that, _Jaime thinks. And part of him wants to fight, but it is true, what Tyrion says. Jaime can’t remember wanting anything but to be somewhere else. There’s the little ways he copes. There’s the art, there’s the audiobooks.

There’s Rohanne.

He still has another track from her to listen to.

“The board meeting,” Jaime starts. Pauses. “It’s on Thursday. I’ll—talk to you before that.”

Tyrion nods. “I’ll buy you a better bottle.”

He leaves.

Quiet, at last. Jaime lets it linger for a while, and then, he puts on his headphones. He presses play on the second track, and for five minutes and eight seconds, he gets his fondest desire as Rohanne transports him elsewhere, to a world of magic and sorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Parasocial interaction, if you don't know, is _"[A term coined by Horton and Wohl](https://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/oi/authority.20110803100305809) in 1956 to refer to a kind of psychological relationship experienced by members of an audience in their mediated encounters with certain performers in the mass media, particularly on television. Regular viewers come to feel that they know familiar television personalities almost as friends. Parasocial relationships psychologically resemble those of face-to-face interaction but they are of course mediated and one-sided."_  
\- Here's a song that captures the vibe I had in mind for Brienne's harp track. [And yes, it's five minutes and eight seconds.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f-bGAr7Oaa0)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	6. Brienne III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goldenhand makes a suggestion. Shireen asks for help. Brienne can't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you forgot that this fic existed. BUT IT DOES, AND IT LIVES. HELLO. Here's a new chapter. I hope you like it, because just formatting the chat bits gave me a headache.
> 
> As always, thank you to Luthien, slipsthrufingers, and Imber_Reader.

_**goldenhand** [16:26]  
_ _u shd post the song on raventube_

Brienne frowns at the chat message. Some two hours ago, Goldenhand had said something about going into a meeting that’s _“100% gonna be a pain”. _They’ve groused about this meeting all week, though Brienne doesn’t know much about it. Goldenhand’s boss is _“a cunt” _(their words, not Brienne’s) and said boss is _“blackmailing” _Goldenhand into _“some leadership shit i want no part of”._

It’s all very nebulous, and Brienne’s afraid to ask. After all, there’s an unspoken agreement between them not to pry. Other than the admittance that Brienne had gone to a specialised music school, she hasn’t revealed much else. Goldenhand hasn’t, either. She knows they keep irregular hours and that they have a desk job, and that’s good enough for her. After all, they only started chatting last weekend, and it’s only Thursday.

And yet Brienne can already figure out that Goldenhand doesn’t get enough sleep, and that they don’t eat good enough food despite possibly being rich—after all, they can afford coming in late to work and dropping fifty gold dragons on unwitting audiobook readers—and that they fixate on art when they’re stressed.

So, that text must mean the meeting had gone badly.

“Waiting for a call, Tarth?” a familiar voice calls to her. Hyle Hunt makes his way towards his desk, stationed next to Brienne.

Brienne types, _meeting went well? _Then she places the phone facedown. “No, just saw another article about that new movie with Cersei Lannister,” she lies.

Hyle grins conspiratorially. “Reliable, fair Ms Tarth, reading the rags,” he says. “What now? She insulted more women?”

“No, the article’s about the movie. Apparently, the studio greenlit a sequel despite low ratings.”

“Well, Rhaegar Targaryen _owns _the studio, and he doesn’t seem like the type to admit defeat,” Hyle says. He’s arrived at his desk. A stack of exam papers falls on it with a dull thud. Tension runs high in the school with the national exams coming up. Some teachers are more affected than others—Hyle, for example, teaches maths. His year 12 classes now hold practice exams once a week.

Brienne’s class, being an elective, has the practical test to worry about, but rehearsals for the end-of-year music show are less stressful when everyone involved knows she would never give them anything lower than passing grade.

Her phone vibrates. She looks at it.

_**goldenhand** [16:31]  
horrible, tx for asking  
seriously though put it on raventube  
at least the harp one  
do it while movie’s still trending_

That’s not a terrible idea, if a little cheap. It veers rather close to clickbait, in her opinion, but then again wasn’t the song inspired by the movie’s dreadful interpretation of the myth? Was it not written as a counterpoint? In that case, would it not be fine if she used the movie’s hype to get her version heard?

“Hey, I was thinking,” Hyle says, once more cutting through her thoughts. “We never hang out outside of work. Do you want to get a drink tonight?”

“I can’t,” Brienne says, standing from her desk, collecting her things. “I have something else.” If she wants to post it as a video, she has to figure out how to edit videos, and with her luck, it’ll take all night. Considering the movie is quickly being forgotten not even a week after its premiere, she doesn’t have much time.

“Some other time, then?” Hyle calls out.

Brienne says, “Yeah, sure,” though her mind is already thinking of video editing freewares.

She texts Goldenhand on the train.

_**Rohanne Storm **[16:52]  
You’re right. Do you happen to have recommendations for video editing software?   
Preferably one that’s free and lightweight._

_**goldenhand **[16:54]   
dont be silly   
i can make the vid for u   
besides didnt ur laptop freeze when ur editing the giscari war audiobook   
i doubt it can with stand video editing_

_**Rohanne Storm **[16:57]  
I suppose you're not wrong.  
I’m planning to buy a new one, but I haven’t done research on which model is the best.  
Is it really okay for you to do the video editing?_

_**goldenhand **[16:58]   
ofc_

_**Rohanne Storm **[16:58]  
I don’t need much. We can just put the music audio and then have the visual be the cover art you made._

_**goldenhand **[16:59]   
absolutely not if u think i will let ur music video be some stationery image u dont know me   
no i’ll make some looping animation for it_

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:02]  
Animation? Isn’t that too much trouble?_

_**goldenhand **is typing . . ._

Brienne sighs, weary. Goldenhand makes good art. Great art, even. That album cover they made for her was incredible. It’s the profile of Nissa Nissa’s figure, the sword through her, her hands clutching the pommel. The blade that comes out her back is red-hot, the wound dripping molten steel instead of blood. Her dress is the ash-grey of forges, and the background is a snowstorm at night. Her face isn’t open and shocked. Her eyes are set on the wound, her mouth tight in determination.

Brienne nearly cried when she saw it.

They refused to hear anything about payment, insisting that it was fan art. Even when they made an alternate cover art for the harp version where everything was in greyscale except for the red-hot blade and droplets of molten steel, they rebuffed any offer for compensation. True, she never asked for either artwork, but this video… if Goldenhand ends up making it, she _can’t_ not pay them. At that point, it’s commissioned artwork.

And she doesn’t know if she can afford them.

_Besides,_ a small, cruel part of her whispers, _their animated art might be too beautiful for my mediocre music._

She shuts that part up. Her music isn’t mediocre. She knows that. She passed her exams with flying colours and was top of her class in composition and voice theory. She trains her voice every day. She doesn’t have a great range, but she knows her strengths and plays into them.

Her music is _not _mediocre.

_No, _the cruel voice says, wrapping itself around her chest, tightening like a viper. _You’re just too ugly to be marketable._

Her phone interrupts the pity party with a chat notification.

_**goldenhand **[17:04]  
not too much trouble  
i’ve been wanting to try animation for a while and your song is just an excuse  
It’s not a short film i promise  
just the album art with the molten metal blood dripping, and maybe ember sparks and snow effects  
i’ll get it done tonite_

It’s unwarranted, but Brienne can’t help but read Goldenhand’s text with the voice of one of her students, a bro-type who either overestimates his own skills or underestimates the assignment. “Sure, Ms Tarth, I’ll bring the homework tomorrow, thanks for the extension!” that bro-dude named Jon something or other would say, with eyes full of relief and terror. Relief for the extension. Terror because he has to write an essay on heroic ballads overnight. Except Goldenhand probably won’t feel the terror until around 9 pm tonight, when he—no, _they _realise that the task is not a small one.

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:06]  
That sounds like a lot, to be honest._

_**goldenhand **[17:07]   
oh ye of little faith  
_

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:07]  
I didn’t know you were religious._

_**goldenhand** [17:08]  
i’m not, but twelve years in private school attached to a sept gets u somewhere  
i got the lingo at least  
never really god the faith part  
*got ha, look at that, divine intervention thru typo_

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:10]  
Funny._

_**goldenhand **[17:10]  
tx, i try_

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:10]  
But I’m serious, don’t overextend yourself.  
I don’t know if I afford to commission a video from you, anyway.  
*If I can afford  
Your typos are contagious._

_**goldenhand **[17:11]  
i like it  
adds a human touch  
re: payment, i accept in kind  
eg u can just buy me a drink and were good_

Brienne’s breath catches. Is that—no, it can’t be. Goldenhand can’t be asking her out for a drink? No one asks Brienne out for drinks, and for good reason. She’s no great conversationalist, no matter how much social lubricant she imbibes. She can’t help but think that Goldenhand has an idealised view on Rohanne Storm. Rohanne is articulate. Rohanne does voices. Rohanne sings. Maybe those things combined create an illusion of an appealing, socially savvy Rohanne Storm.

Except, of course, Rohanne Storm doesn’t exist. There’s just Brienne Tarth, lumbering no matter how much she hunches to make herself small. Brienne Tarth received rejection after rejection for reasons beyond her control. Goldenhand, with their generosity and dry wit, would be disappointed by the woman behind Rohanne.

Rohanne is polite and poised. What would Rohanne do?

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:15]  
I can buy you a drink, sure. What’s your tossacoin ID?_

_**goldenhand **[17:15]  
u better not thi- ffs rohanne  
i mean we shd get a drink togetjer  
not u paying me cash_

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:16]  
I’m not a good drinking partner, unfortunately._

_**goldenhand **[17:17]  
coffee then  
or a beverage of ur choice  
unless u live not in KL?_

An out. Brienne should take it. It’s an easy lie. She’s not native to King’s Landing. She still sounds vaguely Stormlander. And yet, lying to Goldenhand feels perverse. She’s still considering how to gently reject the offer when a new message arrives.

_**goldenhand **[17:18]  
ah hell, am i making u uncomfortable  
i’m sorry  
i know we’re basically strangers_

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:21]  
It’s all right. It’s just… a little overwhelming, that’s all.  
I’ve never befriended someone online, and I don’t know how to approach it.  
And I don’t know what assumptions you have about me, but I’m not Rohanne. I’m not a good conversationalist, or someone talented, and I can’t even do calligraphy. The profile icon is something I commissioned from one of my more artistically talented students._

_**goldenhand **[17:23]  
now ur just being silly  
r u saying uve been pretending and lying to me on chat the past week?_

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:23]  
No, of course not._

_**goldenhand **[17:24]  
yeah i know. ur just careful w/ ur words. that’s not a lie  
i enjoy talking to u this past week so ur good at conversing or w/e in my books  
ur sincere and when ur a litlte more relaxed u make typos and jokes_

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:25]  
The typos are your fault._

_**goldenhand **[17:25]  
and the jokes?_

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:26]  
No comment._

She stows her phone in her pocket. It’s her stop, which means she needs to elbow her way out of the train. The phone burns into her thigh. A lifelong roadside safety habit stops her from taking it out and outright texting while walking. This part of the city, a biker could just ride past her and snatch her phone, pluck it out of her hand so easily, and all because she has to talk to her—something. Friend? Can she call them a friend of hers?

There’s no reason Goldenhand would call her their friend, but have they not been talking all week? Is that not what friends do?

Brienne slows down a little when her apartment building is within view. She’d somehow started pacing, and she didn’t even notice it until sweat started beading on her temples in the humid weather. She unzips her light jacket, letting some wind cool her down as she walks a little more calmly to her flat. As soon as she closes the door behind her, she takes out her phone.

_**goldenhand **[17:26]  
HA_

_**goldenhand **[17:28]  
look, i’m sorry for pushing u about the drinks  
but i know the difference between public and private personas  
and watching things u say is not the same as dishonesty  
also u r rohanne. u made her. u sing and play musical instruments. those r talents_

_**goldenhand **[17:33]  
anw im makin the animation now_

_[download attachment: lightbringerviddemo.mp4 - 2.6 mb]_

Brienne downloads the video. What choice does she have? Adamantly refuse to acknowledge Goldenhand’s attempt at ripping off himself?

It’s a soundless, high-res video, about a minute long. In it is the same album cover art, except Goldenhand has animated the molten metal-blood dripping from the tip of the sword, making it swirl and glow and fall to the ashy snow.

The video ends, leaving Brienne in the darkness of her flat. She hasn’t switched the light on, or taken off her jacket and shoes. No, she’s just been hovering by the shoe rack, watching a soundless video.

Goldenhand must never know about this.

She turns on the lights, takes off her shoes, drops her bag to the floor, takes off her jacket, and flops onto her bed like a dead fish. She lifts her phone and replays the video, taking in the subtle but effective animation.

It’s incredible, but also impossible to achieve in such a short time, unless Goldenhand is already adept at animation. The simplest things often take the longest to perfect. Brienne can only draw one conclusion from this.

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:48]  
How long have you been working on this? Don’t lie and say only this afternoon._

_**goldenhand **[17:49]  
welcome back  
u home now i hope? not overworking urself?_

There’s a flutter of something odd in Brienne’s chest at Goldenhand’s casual familiarity with her schedule. She pushes it down. She can’t afford to get twitterpated over someone who hasn’t even seen her face. Sure, Goldenhand’s all friendly now, but if they ever talked her into that drink, they would take one look at her and lose all interest, friendly or—or whatever unthinkable interest they have.

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:50]  
Yes, I’m home, thank you. Now answer the question_

_**goldenhand **[17:50]  
ooh, u forgot to put a full stop!  
if u must know, ive been using this as stress relief since mr bossman gave me the ultimatum  
so maybe ive had this version since last nite  
u like?_

Curse Goldenhand to the seven hells and back, because Brienne _does _like the animation. Worse, she _loves _it. It’s ridiculous how such a subtle change can make the picture come alive. There’s no way she will accept this without paying them, though, and just the thought of arguing with Goldenhand about it already exhausts her.

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:52]  
Yes, I like it.  
Since you put so much effort into it, I can’t not pay you, you know that, right?_

_**goldenhand **[17:53]  
shit  
was worried ud say that  
btw this isnt done im still figuring out how to get tasteful ember sparks to fly across the screen  
got the hair wave down tho_

_[download attachment: lightbringerviddemo2.mp4 - 3.1 mb]_

This time, Nissa Nissa’s hair sways back and forth, as though blown by an invisible wind. It’s unnerving to look at, despite the highly stylised art. At this point, she shouldn’t pay Goldenhand a lump sum. Any clicks on the video would be at least fifty percent due to the art, and so she should give Goldenhand a cut instead.

That’s not a bad idea, actually. That way, she doesn’t have to pay them out of pocket. They’d just split the income from the video… if any. Brienne vaguely knows the way RavenTube operates; something like one stag every one thousand views, and nothing under that.

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:56]  
How about this? I won’t pay you out of pocket, but you have to agree to take a cut if we make any money out of the video.  
50-50._

_**goldenhand **[17:58]  
deal but 90-10 and i mean 90 to u 10 to me_

_**Rohanne Storm **[17:59]  
Are you seriously haggling down your own cut?_

_**goldenhand** [18:00]  
yep  
way i see it, the art wudnt even exist if ur music didnt  
& i dont need the money_

_**Rohanne Storm **[18:02]  
Are you serious?  
It’s not about not needing the money. It’s about not underselling your own work.  
Do you just give people free art, willy nilly?_

_**goldenhand **[18:03]  
nah, just u  
ur my muse remember  
also ok, 85-15_

_**Rohanne Storm **[18:03]  
I haven’t given you a counter offer!_

_**goldenhand **[18:04]  
didnt hv to  
its implied in ur argument  
pls accept 85-15_

_**Rohanne Storm **[18:04]  
You’re a very strange person, Goldenhand.  
60-40._

_**goldenhand **[18:05]  
yup no man like me but me  
75-25 and u thank me when u win ur first throney  
final offer_

_**Rohanne Storm **[18:07]  
He/him are your preferred pronouns then?  
I doubt I’ll ever win an Iron Throne, so 70-30.  
I’ll still thank you in the off-chance that I do win it._

_**goldenhand **[18:09]  
yup sadly im just a boring dude  
also deal, and u shd really do something about that pessimism_

Something about Goldenhand’s sunny disposition rankles at Brienne. She had often wished to have someone in her corner, someone who believed in her no matter what. He, however, seems to have _too much _faith in her. Winning an Iron Throne is something Brienne doesn’t even dare to think of, yet Goldenhand throws it around like it’s a certainty.

Or maybe he doesn’t think she will win a Throney after all. Maybe he was simply using it as a bargaining chip, a distraction from the obvious charity work he’s doing for her.

Goldenhand has been nothing but sincere, though, and what could he gain from calling her his muse, or boosting her signal with every art post? Unless, of course, contrary to what he vehemently stated in one of his e-mails, he truly is a creep trying to get in her pants.

She snorts. One look at her and whatever fantasies her voice has conjured in his mind would be gone.

* * *

The name card burns in Brienne’s pocket. She’d forgotten about it, having tucked it between the pages of her sheet music. So many things happened the day Shireen won the competition that she only now remembers the encounter with Elia Martell and her card.

Still, Brienne has held on the card for too long. It’s not hers, was never meant to be hers, so she takes care to bring it to school on Friday so she can give it to Shireen properly and remove it from her conscience. She has lessons all day, though, and none with Shireen’s class—not that Brienne can give the card to Shireen in front of all the students without inciting a riot and possibly a lawsuit from Elia’s legal team—and her breaks have been filled with grading and shoveling food into her face, so the card stays there, burning and _loud _for the entirety of the school day.

Just as the bell rings, though, Brienne arrives at the teachers’ office to find Shireen by the door, wringing her hands . It’s such an unsettling sight that Brienne immediately beckons the girl to the empty gym and sits her on the bleachers.

“What is it?” Brienne asks.

Shireen speaks in a calm, measured voice, even though her hands stay restless. “Mum doesn’t want me to sing any more.”

Brienne frowned. “Why not?”

“She thinks I have no future there because—um, because—” Shireen falters and motions to the scar on her face. “She thinks the win last week was a fluke.”

Brienne sucks in a breath. What a nasty thing to say to one’s own child. Brienne’s father never truly approved of her career choice, but even he never belittled her like this. “A fluke? You won fair and square!”

Shireen’s voice becomes even quieter when she says, “I told her that, but she said the win only makes me arrogant and think that I’m too good to sing in the Temple.”

Shireen’s mother is a _very _active member in the Temple of R'hllor. Brienne tries not to judge people on their religion, but she can only tolerate so much zeal. The last time Mrs Baratheon came to collect Shireen’s report card, she went on a tangent that ended with a brochure about the Temple pushed into Brienne’s hand, despite all attempts to politely turn it down.

Shireen has been skipping worship to practise , with the competition coming, but it’s clear now that Mrs Baratheon only allowed it because she hoped Shireen would fail, killing her singing ambition once and for all. Instead, Shireen has won, and her mother is clearly scared of her daughter losing faith.

Brienne sighs. The situation is disheartening, but at least she’s had her share of difficult parents. She knows what to do, and so she asks, carefully, “How much do you like the Temple? Be honest with me.”

Shireen shrugs. “I don’t care much for it, but I don’t hate it.”

“Good. That makes it easier.” Brienne stands up. “Come on, we’ll practise some hymns that you can sing this weekend.”

“Do you think that’ll be enough to convince Mum, Miss?”

Brienne shakes her head. “No, but it’ll lighten her mood and remind her that all that practice is paying off. As for the thing about the future”—she takes out the card, for when would be a better time to use it?—“someone else can convince her.”

* * *

_**goldenhand **[03:17]  
ROHANNE  
ITS DONE ITS DONE  
I MEAN YES ITS ALSO 3AM ON SATURDAY SO A LIL LATER THAN I THOUGHT BUT ITS DONE  
https://www.ravendrive.com/files/2knd2esJSnd237dn2458shlamxoKJAye2ebdj/download?  
UPLOAD THIS ASAP OK? OK. GOTTA GET THAT TUBE MONEY._

_**Rohanne Storm **[03:19]  
Well done. Now go to sleep._

_**goldenhand **[03:19]  
wtf ur awake why you should be asleep!!_

_**Rohanne Storm **[03:20]  
You woke me up.  
Also, you hypocrite, you stayed up until 3 to work on this._

_**goldenhand** [03:21]  
yea but im not the responsible one in this relationship  
*frienship  
yep i think i should sleep bye_

_**Rohanne Storm **[03:24]  
Good night._

_**Rohanne Storm **[03:41]  
I still haven’t finished downloading that file to my laptop.  
Why does it have to be so big?_

_**goldenhand** [03:42]  
yea i didnt know what encoder to use and the res ends up bloatig the file size sry_

_**Rohanne Storm **[03:42]  
Oh my Gods, Goldenhand, SLEEP.  
I thought you logged off!_

_**goldenhand **[03:43]  
i mean i did and then i couldnt sleep because i want to see how u react so im now in the dark with my phone beaming blue light right into my eyeballs and i have never been more awake_

_**Rohanne Storm **[03:44]  
Turn off your phone. Now._

_**goldenhand **[03:44]  
nuh uh not until u tell me what u think of it_

_**Rohanne Storm **[03:45]  
You’re insufferable.  
I’m going to go back to sleep and leave the download on.  
Expect my reaction in six to nine hours._

_**Rohanne Storm **[03:47]  
You’re welcome to stay up if you want, but just know that if I find out you didn’t sleep, I will upload that video on Tuesday.  
During work hours._

_**goldenhand **[03:48] U MONSTER_

_**Rohanne Storm **[03:48]  
:)  
Good night, Goldenhand._

_**goldenhand **[03:49]  
bye mistress muse_

Brienne stares at her screen in disbelief. The absolute _gall_ of this man. She would throw her phone at the wall if not for the fact that phones are not, in fact, cheap.

How is she supposed to go back to sleep now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're hankering for something of a different flavour entirely, might I suggest the fic I am writing with slipsthrufinger? We've written give or take 80% of it within three weeks, so you know it's not going to go on a two-month hiatus like this one. We posted the first chapter just yesterday. You can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22736122/chapters/54328942).


	7. Interlude: Jaime and Brienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things change as summer approaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait. This chapter took a whole three months to write, because no one ever told me that epistolaries are hard, and by the time I find out for myself it's too late to turn back. Thank you, as always, to the usual suspects for hand-holding and cheerleading. This chapter has been a lot. Anyway... enjoy.

**JAIME LANNISTER SEEN ESCORTING SUPERSTAR SISTER TO PREMIERE - IS THE LANNISTER SCION BACK IN THE FOLD?**

Jaime Lannister was seen escorting his sister, Cersei Lannister (ex-wife of media mogul Robert Baratheon, wife of controversial auteur Rhaegar Targaryen, and subject of much debate among feminist circles) to the premiere of Nine Nights in Naath. While the less is said about the movie, the better, we just _ can’t _ stop wondering what is up with Jaime, who disappeared from public appearances shortly after the court convicted him for the manslaughter…  read more 

  
  


* * *

  
  


**hicrybyebyebaby  
**ok im outing myself as a young’in……. this jamie guy is hot but why is everyone freaking out about his return? i heard he actually killed someone you guys deadass be stanning a murderer huh

**🔁 magicschmagic  
**OH BABY  
Okay, here’s Schmagic’s Primer for the Only Valid Man that is Jaime Lannister

  * It’s Jaime, not Jamie. Like the Myrish word for I Love (J’aime)
  * Jaime Lannister is hot. This is true, and will always be true. But we don’t stan him for his looks.
  * Let’s be clear: we _are _thirsty for his looks. This man is the most beautiful man known to humanity. There are actual journalistic articles (though that word has loose meanings these days) that will mention how this guy is even more beautful than his photos, because No Camera Is Strong Enough
  * Back in the day, he did some modelling and a lot of PR for Casterly. We, my children, were fed some fucking good food.
  * But. BUT. He went out of the public view for about four-ish years. And we despaired. Yes, he vanished because probably the media attention was getting too much after he beat Aerys Targaryen to death… but that’s why we miss him. because he manslaughtered a guy (is that a word? Imma make that a word.)
  * So this guy Jaime beat to death? He’s a rapist. Five years ago a few actresses started coming forward, alleging that he’s coerced them to: do sexual acts in exchange for roles, threatening to sink their projects, cornering them in the bathroom area of public events… etc. Look up Aerys Targaryen (Yes, Rhaegar’s dad). CW for literally everything this walking shitstain has ever done.
  * Aerys had a production house and could launch or kill a celeb’s career with nothing but a flick of his grotty fingers. It took decades before any of these news came to light.
  * But then more and more women started coming forward. Many of them had supporting evidence, very detailed account and the exact time it happened, supporting testimonies…
  * However, you know how difficult it is to get justice with regards to sex crimes. Even more so when it’s against a rich, powerful villain.
  * Enter Jaime Lannister.
  * Aerys was holding a wrap party for his company’s Most Ambitious Movie Of The Year. (Fantastic Ambitions is a film that… oh boy. Thats a whole different tl;dr, and not relevant to this story.)
  * The party was held at his house. Now, Jaime was… he’s friends with Elia Martell, and Elia was still married to Rhaegar back then, though everyone knew of his affair with Lyanna S. And Jaime had heard of some very unsettling things about how Aerys behaved around her. He never outright… touched her, so to speak, but it’s still bad.
  * So Jaime went, a little tipsy, to talk to Aerys. Who was in the non-party area of the house. Beating his wife.
  * Jaime went, interfered, Aerys retaliated, but one of em’s a hunk and the other’s an old, old man. So, Jaime won. And sort of shoved Aerys down the stairs, killing him. (As an aside, look up the coroner report because… it’s unclear if the death happened before or after the fall.)
  * Rhaella Targaryen testified in Jaime’s favour at court, and though he was convicted for manslaughter, they let him go for community service. For the women who spoke out against Aerys, though… the manslaughter _was _community service.
  * And that is why we stan Jaime Lannister. Not because he killed a guy, but because he did so protecting a woman. I, for one, welcome the incoming onslaught of Jaime pics that heralds his return.

**🔁 lyannalionslayer  
**Sure, he did all that… but he also only acted once everyone spoke out against Aerys. And let’s not forget that his dad bribed the judge so he doesn’t go to jail. And that his comeback is basically accompanying his sister, who’s not only sexist, classist, xenophobic, and homophobic, but also the wife of the very problematic son of Aerys himself.

In short, no, Jaime Lannister is not the dreamboat this hellish website wants you to believe.

Source: hicrybyebyebaby  
_ #this site really has low standards huh #just because he’s a lil pretty #he’s friends and family with heinous people and that makes him just as bad #also psa #stop romanticising true crime  
_**4,283 notes**

  
  


* * *

  
  


**TEN BEACH PHOTOS OF JAIME LANNISTER WITH TEN DIFFERENT BABES ON HIS ARM**

In case you haven’t heard, the Lannister heir is back. Here’s a reminder of how much of a snack he is. (No. 7 has his tear-and-share-bread abs in full view!) Go To Slideshow or scroll down for the full list.

  
  


* * *

  
  


**unemployed classic lit grad student** @meowbeoneday  
you gUYS finally someone got the myth right  raven.tube/watch/YjsUh83Ndk4  
**2,540 likes 1,936 retweet**

> **NissaNissa Deserves Better **@l1ghtbringer  
@meowbeoneday Excuse me that animated cover art is WILD  
**422 likes**
> 
> **unemployed classic lit grad student** @meowbeoneday  
@l1ghtbringer if you think the singer isn't also the most feral thing this side of the century we're no longer mutuals  
**73 likes**
> 
> **Mark **@mmullett  
@meowbeoneday actually the reading that nissa2 is lightbringer itself is not only some feminist reading that has no place in the original lore, but also unoriginal as hell. Nice art, tho. Music’s just ok. Harp’s a tad gimmicky  
**46 likes**
> 
> **NissaNissa Deserves Better **@l1ghtbringer  
@meowbeoneday @mmullett UM ACTUALLY no one asked you, dungeon crawler. Go back inside before the sunlight burns your mole butt skin.  
**270 likes**

  
  


* * *

  
  


** _goldenhand _ ** _ [03:16]  
_ _ hey  
_ _ hey rohanne  
_ _ i hv a great idea  
_ _ what if we buy an ad on raventube fo ur song  
_ _ that way web tnrhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [03:18]  
_ _ sry i fell asleep on my keyboard  
_ _ ANYWAY  
_ _ ad, yay or nay _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [05:37]  
_ _ GOLDENHAND, NO. _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [05:37]  
_ _ no to the ad or the falling asleep _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [05:38]  
_ _ Both. No to both.  
_ _ Brb, shower.  
_ _ Wait. How are you already up again? _

** _Rohanne Storm_ ** _ [06:00]  
_ _ You didn’t sleep, did you. _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [06:13]  
_ _ I was hoping you’re not replying because you're asleep, but I can see you and your little green dot. _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [06:15]  
_ _ I KNOW YOU JUST TURNED YOUR STATUS TO INVISIBLE. GO TO SLEEP. _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [06:15]  
_ _ bully to u  
_ _ fiiiiine i didnt sleep but also  
_ _ cant oversleep if u dint sleep at all _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [06:17]  
_ _ Oh my gods, how are you an actual living adult? _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [06:19]  
_ _ early childhood parental loss  
_ _ mildly emotionally abusive parenting  
_ _ priviledged lifestyle means im rich and so harder to kill but my life still sux  
_ _ u kno how it is _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [06:25]  
_ _ uve been typing and deleting for like 6 mins now  
_ _ its ok. my life is what it is.  
_ _ ur making it better  
_ _ really. even before we talked u helped plenty with ur audiobooks and music  
_ _ anyway ur also right def no ad we dont want people hating ur song because they gotta listen to 15 secs of it b4 they get to the vid they wanna watch _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [06:30]  
_ _ If you promise to sleep properly tonight, I’ll send you the first five chapters of the Ghiscari Wars audiobook.  
_ _ Okay, I have to go to school. Talk later! _

** _goldenhand_ ** _ [09:48]  
_ _ ud be glad to know that i fell asleep for a solid 3 hrs and so i demand that audiobook now  
_ _ or at ur earliest convenience  
_ _ have a good day dont let the kids eat u _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [11:32]  
_ _ I’m not giving it to you now.  
_ _ You’ll listen to it at work. _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [11:34]  
_ _ only if u count listening to my dad about some money stuff “work” _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [11:35]  
_ _ Isn’t it? _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [11:36]  
_ _ pls  
_ _ rohanne storm  
_ _ my muse, my siren  
_ _ i’d much rather listen to *your* voice _

_ [download attachment: five ghiscari wars pt 1 - 36.2 mb] _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [11:59]  
_ _ ur the best  
_ _ <3 _

  
  


* * *

  
  


**the fall of the last harpy**

Excellent news: I got my hands on Rohanne Storm’s new audiobook. She narrates The Five Ghiscari Wars and as usual, she does it beautifully. She hasn’t uploaded it to the masses, but yours truly has somehow _ befriended _her (me? Having friends? Inconceivable!) and being friends with your muse comes with excellent perks. I can’t resist drawing the scene where the last harpy in the world died in the war. Content warning for blood and mild gore, there.

If you like this art, which you damn well should, check out the audiobook, which will be posted on Rohanne’s blog and toss a coin to her! This audiobook has successfully killed her laptop, and though she’s gotten a replacement for it, she still has installments to pay in the future, and every silver stag helps.

Peace out.

> **Classical_Fan  
**Hey, been following you for a while. Do you take commissions?
> 
> **goldenhand  
**@Classical_Fan never have, not inclined to, why?
> 
> **Classical_Fan  
**Ah, too bad. I was going to commission artwork for a book I’m writing, but if you’re not doing commissions then that’s okay, cheers!
> 
> **goldenhand  
**@Classical_FAN dm me and we’ll talk

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ To: Martyn Sand (martyn.sand@ravenmail.com)  
_ _ From: Rohanne Storm (rohanne.storm@ravenmail.com)  
_ _ Subject: FW: martynsand tossed you a coin! _

_ Dear Mr Sand,  
_ _ I am writing on the generous donation you made to my tip jar. You wrote, in the comment section, ‘commission payment’, but I do not take any commissions. I’m afraid you have mistakenly sent the money my way, when it should be someone else’s—please contact me so I can transfer it back to you via your preferred channel. _

_ Best Regards,  
_ _ Rohanne Storm _

> _ see forwarded mail _

  
  


* * *

  
  


** _Rohanne Storm_ ** _ [22:13]  
_ _ Goldenhand. Can we talk? _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [22:13]  
_ _ ofc, whatsup _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [22:17]  
_ _ ur still typing?????????  
_ _ ah shit ur mad arnt u  
_ _ this is about the money isnt it _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [22:18]  
_ _ I would appreciate it if, in the future, you don’t treat me like a charity case. Yes, I had to buy a new laptop, but I’m not so poor I can’t handle the installments myself, especially after your very generous donation that precipitated our first encounter. To accept a commission work, charge extravagantly, and have the money be transferred directly into my account is not as flattering as you think it is. I appreciate your friendship and continued support, but if this is to continue, then there will be no more sneak donations, manipulating other people to give me money, and actually, no more of you giving me money. We have a perfectly workable arrangement with the music video, and more and more of our content is collaborations of one way or another, and so I won’t have you giving me money as though I am beneath you, rather than an equal. _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [22:29]  
_ _ sry, took me a while to read all that  
_ _ so ur sayin that if i give u gifts, not money, its ok? _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [22:30]  
_ _ That wasn’t my point at all.  
_ _ Stop trying to buy me things. Stop trying to buy my friendship.  
_ _ Stop trying to buy me. _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [22:32]  
_ _ i wasnt  
_ _ i want to facilitate ur work  
_ _ thats it _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [22:34]  
_ _ I’m going to bed.  
_ _ I have a rehearsal first thing. _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [22:34]  
_ _ gnite _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [04:19]  
_ _ gmornin  
_ _ tell the lil tykes to break a leg _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [05:31]  
_ _ Get some sleep. _

  
  


* * *

  
  


**Recent Tabs  
**

grand piano size - Ravensearch

normal piano size - Ravensearch

Best Pianos of the Decade, from Classics to Cutting-Edge - Bardically.com

tall pianist woman gets played like an instrument - thelittlefinger.br

harp instrument - Ravensearch

valerian harp - Ravensearch

how to apologies - Ravensearch

how apologise via text - Ravensearch

AITA for sneaking money into my struggling artist friends account? - Bluedit.net

Signup - tossacoin.com

  
  


* * *

  
  


**The Five Ghiscari Wars Audiobook**

I’ve finally completed editing this massive audiobook—by far the longest thing I’ve ever narrated! Find it here on Weirwood Dreams.

To new listeners: welcome. I understand that many of you are here from either Goldenhand’s blog or the Lightbringer music video. I hope you don’t find my more regular content underwhelming, and I hope you like this little corner of the internet where I try to make music and narrate classical, public domain audiobooks.

I want to thank Goldenhand for his support and sometimes borderline unethical means to promote my work. I also want to return the favor: Goldenhand has started opening for art commissions. If you want your own custom art, go to him. If you don’t really want to, but you still want to support his work, he’s made his own tossacoin.

Have a good summer!

> **goldenhand  
**R u still mad at me
> 
> **Rohanne Storm  
**@goldenhand no.
> 
> **goldenhand  
**Pls dont sulk :-(

  
  


* * *

  
  


** _goldenhand _ ** _ [14:08]  
_ _ rohanne  
_ _ babe  
_ _ muse of my dreams  
_ _ how big is ur place _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [14:21]  
_ _ Stop texting under the table and listen to your dad. _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [14:22]  
_ _ :-(  
_ _ yes teach _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [14:21]  
_ _ It’s small.  
_ _ Too small for me, even. _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [14:23]  
_ _ ur tall then? _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [14:25]  
_ _ More than I’d wished I were, growing up.  
_ _ Now I think I’m just about as big as I need to be, but still too big for my flat.  
_ _ What about you, any past growing pains? _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [14:26]  
_ _ nah, im hot & always been  
_ _ but my dad thought i was an idiot cuz i cant read  
_ _ dyslexia is fun amirite _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [14:26]  
_ _ I’m sorry. _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [14:27]  
_ _ dont be  
_ _ wudnt hv found u otherwise _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [14:28]  
_ _ I like to think your nerdery will find me eventually. _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [14:28]  
_ _ excuSE ME  
_ _ dads glaring gotta go brb  
_ _ BUT THIS ISNT OVR _

  
  


* * *

  
  


_ To: Brienne Tarth (BTarth01@baelor.edu.kl)  
_ _ From: Shireen Baratheon (SBaratheon14@baelor.edu.kl)  
_ _ Subject: Request for letter of recommendation _

_ Hi Ms Tarth,  
_ _ I’m applying for the Highgarden Conservatoire’s Young Singer Summer Programme. Elia Martell — oh my gods she’s so nice, miss, can you believe?! — has offered to sponsor me, but I also need a letter of recommendation from a school teacher. Since you’re my favourite teacher, and also the only music teacher at school, will you please write me this letter? _

_ Thanks,  
_ _ Shireen _

  
  


* * *

  
  


**Summer’s Here, I Wrote a New Song, and I Need Your Help.**

I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait for summer break. I’ve had less and less time to practice lately; some vacation time will do my music good. Plus, I just finished writing a new song titled _ The Perfect Knight. _It’s a ballad about the Blue Knight and her pine shield, and when Goldenhand got the demo he insisted on releasing it in the form of a video.

And, if you’ve been here in the past three months or so, you know we’ve been waiting for an excuse to do another collaboration. Click here to see all the cover art he’s made for my older music and here for the _ Lightbringer _ music video.

_ The Perfect Knight _ is a little more upbeat than my usual fare, and I still haven’t decided on the best arrangement, and the recording and sound mixing are going to be a lot—at least I have a new laptop now—which means it’ll take a while before we can show you. However, it also means that Goldenhand will have more time to work on the video.

One problem: we can’t decide on a concept, so vote on the poll below on what kind of video you want to see!

POLL - What kind of music video do you want to see from Goldenhand?  
◯ Simple animation of one single frame (see the _ Lightbringer _ music video)  
◯ Animatic depicting the Blue Knight’s adventure  
◯ Lyric video  
◯ Whichever one lets Goldenhand sleep regularly

> **goldenhand  
**ha, funny
> 
> **Rohanne Storm  
**@goldenhand I’m very serious. If you die from sleep deprivation, I’ll have to find some other artist to call me his muse and make videos for my music, and that just sounds bothersome.
> 
> **goldenhand  
**ill die before u can replace me
> 
> **Rohanne Storm  
**@goldenhand Yes, that was what I was saying.

  
  


* * *

  
  


** _goldenhand _ ** _ [23:09]  
_ _ dont replace me :-( _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [23:10]  
_ _ Then don’t die. _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [23:10]  
_ _ noone ever dies from a lil less sleep _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [23:11]  
_ _ [citation needed] _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [23:11]  
_ _ ur snippy today  
_ _ long day? _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [23:13]  
_ _ Sorry, yeah. A student wants me to write a letter of recommendation for her summer school application.  
_ _ It’s not going well. _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [23:17]  
_ _ ur great at writing tho _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [23:18]  
_ _ I’m passable at writing song lyrics. I’m practically useless at whatever skill is necessary for a letter of recommendation.  
_ _ Marketing?  
_ _ Gods, no, that makes her sound like a product. From a pyramid scheme. _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [23:21]  
_ _ if its ur fav student, u’ll do fine  
_ _ hard to oversell a girl that good, u kno? _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [23:22]  
_ _ I guess. I just want her to get in the programme, you know?  
_ _ Though I suppose my recommendation won’t mean much anyway, considering her sponsor is Elia Martell. _

** _goldenhand _ ** _ [23:26]  
_ _ sry for the delayed replys  
_ _ hard typing & drawing at the same time u hear  
_ _ elia huh?  
_ _ ur student must be real good _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [23:28]  
_ _ She is.  
_ _ Sorry, I won’t keep you from drawing. I better figure this letter out, anyway. _

** _goldenhand_ ** _ [23:33]  
_ _ nooo dont  
_ _ i wanna chat  
_ _ ...can i just call u? _

** _Rohanne Storm _ ** _ [23:40]  
_ _ Ok _

  
  


* * *

  
  


Brienne watches her phone ring. It’s just Goldenhand. He’s heard her voice before. It’ll be okay. So what if he’s never heard her as herself before? They’ve chatted. And sure, when chatting she can take her time to compose a reply, but surely phone calls aren’t that bad? And he’s not a bad guy. A little clueless, a little clingy, too much money for his own good and not enough sleep, but it’ll be fine.

Right?

She reaches for the phone just as it stops ringing.

The screen goes dark, then lights up with a notification.

> ** _goldenhand_ ** _ [23:44]  
_ _ sry  
_ _ we can just chat if ur not comfortable _

Somehow, she can imagine him. Not his physical form, or his voice—she knows nothing of these things—but his thoughts, the way he telegraphs his own hesitation even through badly spelled texts. _ This _text means he thinks it’s him making her uncomfortable, rather than her own anxieties eating herself out from the inside.

She already gave him a hard time over his shenanigans with her tip box. He deserved all the brow-beating, but she didn’t want him to think that they weren’t, in fact, friends. She would have cut him loose, if she didn’t care for him.

Before Brienne can second-guess herself, she calls him first.

Goldenhand picks up on the first ring, his voice almost breathless when he says, “Rohanne, hi.”

“Hi,” she says, jumping off her bed and abandoning her notebook and pen. Somehow, she’s breathless too.

“Hi,” he says again. His voice is… normal. She doesn’t know what she expects. He sounds like any man she might run into at the gym, at a cafe, anywhere. And yet.

“You already said hi,” she says. She clears her throat. She doesn’t know why. It’s like all the words she doesn’t say dries in her mouth like sand. “So, uh. How’s your night going?” Gods, are they back to small talk?

“Much better, now that I can do two of my favourite things at once.”

“Drawing and…?” She starts pacing, walking from the kitchen sink to the shoe rack, back and forth, back and forth. From his side, she hears a scratching sound. His drawing, if she has to guess. The rhythm is soothing, short bursts of scratches, a long swooping one. She wonders what he’s drawing, but she knows she’ll find out soon anyway.

She can hear him grinning from the other end as he says, “Talking to you, of course.”

Seven help her, she’s blushing. “Very smooth,” she says. “That line must get you all the ladies.”

“I don’t make a habit of saying that to other women. Just my muse.”

Brienne’s ear is burning up, and it’s not the phone. “It’s almost midnight. I have to get to bed.”

Goldenhand clears his throat, then, “Right. Sorry for keeping you.”

She stops pacing. “No. No, it’s fine. Next time, just call me earlier.”

He’s quiet again. Did he think she was pushing him away? Technically, she is, but only because she feels as if she will combust if she stays on the line. She looks down to her concert tee and running shorts. It doesn’t matter, since he can’t see her anyway, but somehow she feels exposed, underdressed. Unprepared.

So yes, she’s pushing him away, but she hopes he can tell that it’s not him. She hopes he won’t be deterred from calling again.

“I’ll do that,” he says, eventually.

She feels her entire body relax. “Yeah. Great.”

He asks, “Morning class tomorrow?”

“Thankfully I have the first two periods free, so I can just be half-awake in the teachers’ lounge, let the caffeine wake me up, and give this letter another shot. You?” Caffeine, right. She walks to the fridge, inspecting her cold brew. She still has enough for tomorrow.

“Eh.” In Goldenhand speak, that means he’s going to sleep as the sun is rising, and get to work in the afternoon. What a life, being the heir to a corporate dynasty. She wonders how rich he actually is, and stops her train of thought there—such contemplations won’t end well.

“Right.” She sighs. “Sleep earlier for my sake?”

“Sure,” he says, and she knows for certain it’s a lie. She can hear it.

It really is late, however, and she’s too tired and flustered to argue, so she simply says, “Well, good night then, Goldenhand.”

“Jaime,” he says, quick. “My name’s Jaime.”

“Jaime,” she says, tasting his name on her tongue. It feels better than saying Goldenhand. She doesn’t think when she says, “I’m Brienne.”

“Brienne. Brienne, Brienne, Brienne.” His inflection changes a little, with every repetition. “That’s a pretty name. I think I like it better than Rohanne.”

Something feels like danger there, that he now knows Brienne, too, and not only Rohanne, but it’s too late to regret her decision and so she ignores the alarm. “I’d disagree, but I do really need to get to bed. Good night, Jaime.”

“Sleep well, Brienne.”

She doesn’t. Sleep well, that is, or even at all. All night, she hears Goldenhand’s—no, Jaime’s—voice in her head, going _ Brienne, Brienne, Brienne, _ and in the morning she calls in sick for the first time since she started working at Baelor.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-emptive answers to your possible questions:  
\- _Is thelittlefinger.br...?_ Yes, yes it is. Shout out to slipsthrufingers for coming up with that.  
\- _What's AITA?_ Stands for Am I The Asshole? It's a type of Reddit thread where people tell their story and ask the redditors if they are, in fact, the asshole. In this case, YTA (You're The Asshole), because JAIME NO.  
\- _How long did the formatting for this chapter take?_ Shorter than it would have taken if I'd made a whole work skin for this just so I can have some good-ol-tumblr post formatting style, indents and all. No, I saved myself time and decided to imitate the more recent tumblr post format instead.  
\- _Have you considered just making mockup images?_ Many times, but it often looks horrid on mobile and isn't very accessible unless I add an alt text, and so I decided on just going old school and doing what I can with as little coding as possible.
> 
> We're going back to the usual format after this. Also, check out [the 2020 Jaime x Brienne Fic Exchange](https://jaime-brienne-fic-exchange.tumblr.com/) and sign up if it seems like something you'd like!

**Author's Note:**

> If you want, please tell me what you think in the comments, or say hi to me on [tumblr](http://nire-the-mithridatist.tumblr.com/). Thank you for reading :)


End file.
